


Clean

by 0palescence



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Age Difference, Canon Divergence - Season 3 AU, Choking, Cigarettes, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drug Addiction, Drugged Sex, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sexual Violence, Slurs, Unsafe Sex, Verbal Humiliation, Vomiting, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2020-11-07 21:02:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20823749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0palescence/pseuds/0palescence
Summary: Instead of taking Jesse to rehab for his heroin problem, Walt takes him back home. He's torn between wanting Jesse to be happy and wanting rough sex on IV drugs. They work towards a balance.CONTENT NOTE: Starts hard, finishes softer. Both the hurt and comfort are coming from the same source. Warnings in tags.





	1. Playing House

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT NOTE: There are physically dangerous sex acts in here, eroticization of an unhealthy/abusive relationship dynamic, etc. Bleak moments. 
> 
> Inspired by a [six-year old kink meme prompt](https://brbakinkmeme.livejournal.com/521.html?thread=528649#t528649) \-- the full fic won't really be a fill per se, but credit where credit is due.

In his rearview mirror, Walt could see Jesse slumped against the window of the passenger seat, face crusted with snot and tears, still glassy-eyed and drooling from what he’d shot up in the trap house. They had just left the urban boundaries of Albuquerque. In front of them, blue skies and prairie stretched wide. Only the hum of the engine broke the silence. 

“Where are we, uh, where are we going?” 

Walt responded: “We’re going somewhere safe, Jesse.” His voice was calm and even. 

“You gonna kill me?” 

“You know I would never hurt you.” 

Jesse made a little moan from the back of the car that sounded, to Walt, like stifled sass. Walt continued: “We’re going to rehab.” 

“I don’t – I can’t do it. Not right now, I can’t go to rehab.” 

“I know it’s hard, Jesse.” 

“I killed her. I  _ killed  _ her.” Jesse was calmer than before, at least. He still slurred each word, and his speech was slow, as though each statement was a great effort to wrench out of his brain. “I can’t  _ do  _ this anymore. I can’t, I dunno, drug people. And hurt people and lie about it. We’ve hurt, we’ve hurt a lot of people, Mr. White. Those... tweakers – ” 

“Jesse. Jesse. You need to take care of yourself right now –” 

“I don’t, though. You just see the product. You just see the money. You don’t see the people who … with the ATM – I – killed – we –- killed – the kid – who – ” Jesse’s words grew slower and more scattered, punctured by long, shallow gasps for air. 

“Jesse?” Walt kept one eye on the road, one eye on the rearview mirror. He wasn’t sure what Jesse was talking about, but whatever it was, it seemed to make the kid too distraught to bring it out through the haze of heroin. Jesse flopped over on his side, spreading his body across the backseat of the Aztek. He dug a hand into the pocket of his sweatshirt and pulled something – a pill – and brought it to his mouth. “Jesse. What did you just take?” 

“Doesn’t ... matter.” Whatever Jesse had taken had done something. He was speaking even more slowly, but at least forming full sentences – “I… saw him die. And … I saw … Jane. How many … people died, from our meth? That we… that we didn’t see? And … if you take me to rehab … I can’t lie about that. That we made meth. Killed people. If I’m not high… I’d need to tell them… about us. Tell the cops. What we did. The truth. Everything.” 

Walter said nothing. He drove a few more miles. Only Jesse’s ragged, drugged breathing punctuated the silence. Then, he pulled over.

“You’re right. You can’t go to rehab.”

* * *

The sun was setting by the time they arrived back at Jesse’s apartment. Jesse had been slumping further and further as they drove, periodically popping more pills into his mouth, and was now fully horizontal in the backseat of the car. He did not react as they pulled into his driveway. 

Walt got out of the car, opened the door closest to Jesse, and unbuckled the seatbelt that evidently was the only thing holding Jesse upright, as the young man’s body immediately tumbled to the floor of the car like so much dead weight. The strangled gasp of surprise he let out least reassured Walt of his consciousness. Walt hefted him back up. He was breathing shallowly but steadily, his eyes half-open, eyelashes fluttering to expose the whites of his rolled-back eyeballs. Fishing around in Jesse’s pockets, Walt was able to retrieve Jesse’s keys, a few dozen loose and crumpled bills of various denominations, and a prescription bottle containing fewer than a dozen pills of various sizes; according to the bottle’s label, it had originally contained Oxycodone and belonged, naturally, to somebody other than Jesse. 

“Jesse. Can you walk?” Walt asked in the gentlest voice he could muster. Jesse pushed himself up a few inches and let out a little noise that Walt thought – hoped – was a yes. 

Walt went and unlocked the doors to Jesse’s house, looked both ways for witnesses – none he could see, thank God – and as quickly as possible slung his hand around Jesse’s back and, supporting him by his underarms, half-led, half-dragged him back into his home. The idea that Jesse could walk had been optimistic. As soon as they were inside and behind closed doors, Walt hefted him up in a fireman’s carry. With their bodies so close, the reek of puke, stale cigarettes, and old sweat was nearly overwhelming. To the bathroom first, then. 

There was no way Jesse was going to shower in his current state. His inability to stand was one concern, water aspiration a more pressing one. Walt set Jesse down, propped him up in a seated position in the corner between tub and wall, and drew a bath. Jesse was weeping silently, tears rolling down his cheeks. His gaze was downcast and unfocused. That was good, in a way. It meant that Walt didn’t need to meet his eyes as he undressed him. And Jesse’s shirt and jacket, sized for somebody at least twice his weight, were easy to pull off. Walt knew the kid liked things baggy, but either his current clothes weren’t his, or he had lost a substantial amount of weight since they last saw each other. Probably both. Jesse neither helped nor struggled, just let Walt strip him. 

When Walt unbuttoned Jesse’s cargo pants and lifted his hips, they slid off on their own accord. He was naked beneath them. Out of respect, Walt averted his eyes as soon as he noticed, but he had already seen more than Jesse might have wanted to – the root of his cock and, just a few inches away, an angry, purple-and-yellow bruise wrapping around his inner thigh. There was a similar, smaller bruise on Jesse’s inner arm near one of his many sets of track marks. The kid must have blown out all the veins in his arms and been forced to find another injection site. 

“Up we go…” Walt muttered as he lifted Jesse from the back and knees and hoisted him into the tub. He stripped down to his briefs, hung his shirt neatly on Jesse’s unused towel rack, grabbed a washcloth from Jesse’s sink, and then slipped into the warm water behind him so that Jesse was resting in his lap, back propped up against Walt’s chest. He could see Jesse’s chest rising and falling, his breathing calm and smooth and deep, even as he cried. There was a bottle of cheap three-in-one soap on the side of the bath. Walt lathered up the washcloth. 

“‘s cold...” Jesse mumbled. As thin as Jesse was, the two of them barely fit into the small tub, and both their knees, Walt’s chest, and Jesse’s entire rib cage were out of the water and in the dry, frigid air. Well, if Jesse could talk, he could probably breathe in a shower without choking. Walt reached past him, lifted the stopper of the tub a hair-crack, and turned on the knob of the shower. Jesse flinched as the initial burst of cold water from the shower head hit him. Then his muscles went lax against Walt’s body as the two men were enveloped in a warm curtain of water drops. 

Walt wrapped his left arm gently around Jesse’s waist, holding him upright and steady, as he pressed the cloth over his body. It must have been days since Jesse had last bathed. Walt could feel greasy layers of dried sweat and dead skin slough away as he bathed him. Jesse stirred a little, turning, twisting his legs to get as much of them under the hot water at the bottom of the tub as possible. His skinny hips pressed against Walt’s cock. 

On Walt and Skyler’s honeymoon two decades ago, they had gone to Niagara Falls. Rented a suite with a jacuzzi and cuddled up together in it as a prelude to the first of many attempts to conceive Walt Junior. Chocolate-dipped strawberries and flutes of champagne on a tray on the side of the tub. Skyler laughing as Walt teased her, playing with her hair. Things had been so happy, so normal. 

Now Walt was crammed in a cheap apartment tub with his junkie ex-student. Nothing like then. But compared to the place he’d just pulled Jesse out of, just this little bath was like a hot tub in Niagara Falls. 

The flash of memory made Walt’s cock stir. 

Jesse must have noticed. He said nothing. Let Walt hold him and bathe him. Let Walt push his head around to scrub his scalp, scrub his face, exfoliate his scabbed lips. Let Walt grab his knee and spread his legs so the washcloth could mop up the caked blood around the track marks on his bruised inner thigh. 

“Get up. I’ll wash your back.” 

Jesse did, his thighs mashing awkwardly against Walt’s as he turned. With a gentle push from Walt to help, he moved into a position of straddling Walt, facing away from him. He inched a little away from Walt as he turned so that Walt’s thighs were supporting his hips and the edge of the tub near the faucet was supporting his chest. The new position made it a painful stretch for Walt to reach Jesse’s back and scrub it, but it meant Jesse didn’t need to touch Walt’s groin. Or meet his eyes. 

“Are you feeling better?” Walt said quietly. Jesse may have responded with one of the little grunts that had been most of his communication after they left the trap house, but Walt also may have imagined it in the noise of the shower. “Do you want the cloth so you can wash down there?” No response. 

“Do you want me to do it?” No response. 

He lifted Jesse’s hips a little. Ran the washcloth down the crack of his skinny ass, scoured his sweaty, sparsely haired thighs, gave a perfunctory sweep over the kid’s balls and flaccid cock. The Jesse he had known a few weeks ago would have called him a fag for even asking, would have fought tooth and nail to not let Walt touch him in such a humiliating way even if he couldn’t clean himself. 

Walt liked this new Jesse who let Walt care for him. Maybe it was the heroin. 

By now, he was rock hard. 

Seconds later, for the first time since they’d returned to the apartment, Jesse moved without Walt prompting him. The contents of that prescription bottle must have been wearing off. He lifted himself just slightly, bracing himself against the sides of the tub – Walt could see his chemically relaxed muscles trembling under his body weight – and turned around with a splash to face Walt. Jesse’s every movement was slow. His lips were parted, his eyes still half-shut, but there was some awareness under those glazed pupils that hadn’t been there before. Absent context, that resigned, overwhelmed expression could read as despair or as arousal. 

Jesse looked at Walt’s groin, then met his eyes, then fixed his gaze on the side of the bathtub. 

A minute or so later, sitting upright seemed to grow overwhelming for him, and he lay back down next to Walt, curled up on his side and squished against the side of the tub. Walt’s hard-on pressed against Jesse’s leg, and Jesse made no attempts to shy away from it. Jesse’s head rested on Walt’s shoulder, hands on his chest. 

They lay together in silence until the shower water started growing cold. 

* * *

When the bath was over, Jesse could walk again, so long as Walt was there to brace him. Walt helped Jesse back into his sweatshirt – the only remotely clean thing he had been wearing, and oversized enough to give a degree of modesty – dressed himself and gathered Jesse’s filthy clothes, and helped Jesse into the kitchen. He fixed the boy a mug of tea while making reassuring and unanswered comments, then excused himself for a second and dipped into the bedroom. The bed still bore the same rumpled yellow sheets, which now emanated a mild but unmistakable scent of vomit. The blanket was gone. Probably still on Jane when they took her away. 

Working quickly, Walt rifled through the bedroom drawers looking for bedding. He found a whole drawer of pillowcases and fitted sheets, all cheap dorm-room type brown cotton – apparently the flat sheets Jesse was using as curtains had come as part of a set. Hastily, he stripped and reassembled the bed, tossed the sheets that Jane had died in outside, and detached a topsheet from the window so Jesse could at least have something to cover himself with. 

As Walt was taking the sheet down, he heard the bedroom door open behind him. Jesse had stumbled in from the kitchen. When he saw Walt and what Walt was doing, a split-second look of terror seemed to flit across his face before receding back into drugged stupor. 

Jesse slurred: “Where’s the heroin?” 

“Jesse, Mike threw it out, remember? To protect you.” 

“Then xan. Where’s the xan?” 

“You mean this?” Walt proffered the bottle of mystery drugs. Jesse fished out a large rectangular white tablet and a little blue pill and popped them under his tongue. He flopped onto the bed, curled up fetally, and buried his face in the pillow. 

“I’m gonna be sick,” he whined, muffled by the fabric. As Walt moved towards him in concern, he added, “Not right now. Tomorrow. I’m out of dope.” 

“She got you hooked.” Walt said. He tried to make the statement sound sympathetic rather than accusatory, but even so, he immediately regretted it.

“Yeah. I love her.” Jesse said, his voice strangely emotionless. “You gotta get me more.” 

“You really think that’s a good idea after what happened?” 

“You tossed it, you owe me.” 

“I saved your  _ life _ , Jesse!” 

“Sure. Whatever.” Jesse smiled for the first time since Walt had pulled him out of the squat, a smile of amusement but not happiness. “Get me more or I’m gonna kill myself.” 

“You’re threatening me?” Another statement for Walt to regret. Jesse saw that he had struck a nerve, and his smile widened. 

“Yeah, I guess so.” 

“You are a little piece of work, you know that? After everything I’ve done for you!  _ I  _ got you the money for this apartment,  _ I _ tried to keep you from blowing it all on meth, and what do you do? Blackmail me! You saw where that got you. I just bailed you out. And now you’re trying it again?” 

“M-hm.” 

“Why am I the one in charge of keeping you alive? Why can’t you just look after yourself for once?” 

“I dunno, Mr. White. I guess you care more than I do.” 

Walt sat down on the edge of the bed opposite Jesse. He sighed and buried his face in his hands. 

“I’ll get you your drugs tomorrow.” 

“Okay.” There was a little more warmth in Jesse’s voice. “And what about tonight?” 

“Tonight you get some rest. I’ll drop by Wal-Mart, okay? Get you a blanket and some beer? Anything you want.” 

“Don’t go out. Stay.” 

* * *

Walt didn’t tell Skyler that he wouldn’t be coming home tonight. She didn’t call to ask where he was. By now, she must have given up – assumed he was out drinking or having an affair. 

Walt was having an affair. 

He and Jesse were in bed together. Beneath the topsheet, their bodies were pressed together tightly for warmth, separated only by Jesse’s open sweatshirt and Walt’s thin white briefs. What had begun as a comforting embrace had evolved into Walt clutching Jesse tight with one arm as the other hand ran roughshod over Jesse’s body, firmly and possessively. Jesse let out a small moan as Walt gripped his thigh, which Walt hoped was from enjoyment but might as well have been pain from the pressure on his bruise. More little animal noises escaped Jesse’s lips as Walt fumbled with Jesse’s cock, stroking it without really jerking it, bringing him to semi-hardness. 

Jesse barely reacted to Walt’s advances, but he didn’t resist. Emboldened, Walt squirmed his cock out of his underwear and rutted it against Jesse’s bare ass. The boy stayed limp and silent, but at that he stirred. One of his hands, curled up against his chest, lifted a few inches to stroke the arm that Walt had wrapped around him. 

Minutes later, Walt spent his load all over Jesse’s thighs and the cheap brown sheets. Jesse didn’t respond. When Walt rolled him over, he was sound asleep. 

* * *

Walt awoke to daylight. After that harrowing day, he had slept through his alarm. Still no missed calls from Skyler or anyone else. He had nowhere to be. 

Jesse was still curled up in an unconscious ball, but now lay on the opposite side of Walt from last night, back to back. He was drooling. The pill bottle Walt had taken from him last night was on the dresser, open and empty. 

When Walt had broken in two nights ago, the sight of Jesse strung out like this had disgusted him. It was pathetic. But in the morning light, there was something sweet about it. The kid looked pitiful, but after all he’d gone through, he could use some pity. 

And it was easy to pity Jesse on opiates compared to Jesse on meth. He was nice – innocent, almost – when he didn’t fight back. 

The first thing Walt did was call Saul. Saul, of course, knew a doctor who could set Walt up with what he needed. Saul could move heaven and earth for the right price.

The second thing Walt did was search the apartment for anything Jesse could use to harm himself. There wasn’t much. Honestly, there wasn’t much of anything there – Jesse may have had a duffel bag full of money, but he still had a tweaker’s austerity, and Mike’s sweep of the place for beer bottles and paraphernalia had eliminated most of the signs of life. The living room was practically empty aside from the oversized entertainment system and grubby futon. The kitchen contained a scattering of breakfast foods and a few TV dinners; Walt pocketed the sharpest knives. In the bedroom, the top drawer of Jesse’s nightstand was completely empty, presumably having contained his drugs; the bottom drawer held scented candles, some sort of crumpled black PVC lingerie, and other items that a store might classify as “marital aids” or “adult novelties.” It was hard for Walt to imagine what Jesse and Jane had ever done in this house other than fuck and get high. 

In about an hour, the “doctor” – over the phone, Saul had seemed to pronounce the term in air quotes, or italics – was at Jesse’s house, arriving in a grey Lexus with tinted windows. Walt helped him unload cardboard boxes of medical supplies from the trunk. The man looked as unassumingly middle-class as Walt and acted with utmost professionalism. He didn’t ask questions about why Walt needed to learn to administer an IV to an unconscious, nude man half his age, and oversaw Walt in jabbing a butterfly needle around Jesse’s track marks until after seven tries he found a useable vein. 

For a five-figure sum, Walt had purchased this tutorial, some other dosing advice, and multiple grams of liquid morphine. 

Not long after the doctor left, Jesse awoke. 

“Hey. You doing okay?” 

“Yeah.” 

Walt leaned over and tousled Jesse’s hair. As always, all Jesse’s blinds were drawn, but sunlight still streamed in through the broken window and insufficient makeshift curtains. The room glowed in an afternoon haze. “You got a good deal. I get the cancer, you get the cancer drugs.” 

Jesse half-laughed. “That’s so you. I asked for heroin and you got heroin, but like, with science and shit.” Pause. “You’re still here.” 

“You’ve been sick, Jesse. I slept over to look after you.” 

“Sure. You have a good time? Looking after me?” 

Jesse didn’t seem angry – a little happy, a little sad, but at least not angry. Walt felt guilt welling up, but tamped it immediately. Guilt wouldn’t help either of them. 

“Yes. It was nice.” 

“Nice…” Jesse bit his lip, then moved his hand to cover his face and looked away, ashamed. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” 

“Don’t worry about it. I’m fine right here.” 

Jesse didn’t meet his gaze. “Maybe you should go.” 

* * *

On his way out, Walt took Jesse’s keys. Jesse didn’t need to leave the house or get behind the wheel today. He considered taking Jesse’s cell phone as well to remove one more avenue for the kid to get in trouble, but left it in case Jesse needed to contact him for help. He dropped by a bodega on the drive and had a new set cut. 

When he got back home, the house was eerily silent. Skyler was sitting in the kitchen, her suitcases packed, reading a novel while she waited for him to get home. She wanted to talk about divorce. Voices raised. He tried to kiss her. She pushed him away. The fear in her eyes was genuine. 

After she left, Walt sat alone a few minutes in silence. He got a glass of water from the tap, drank it, and left the glass unrinsed on the counter in an act of quiet defiance. Then he got in the car and drove to the bar for a pint. Then, when his anger levels had dropped from “incandescent” to “seething”, he went back to Jesse’s. 

* * *

Back at Jesse’s apartment, an unfamiliar car was parked in the driveway, and bass thumped from inside. Walt fumbled with the keys in anger and stormed in. 

The speakers in the living room were blaring dance music to an empty room. There was a sweatshirt lying on the futon couch and a half-eaten delivery pizza on the floor. The lid of the pizza box held a mound of cigarette butts and blunt roaches. The TV was gone. 

In the bedroom, Jesse was propped up in the middle of his bed, still shirtless and hooked up to the IV bag. A ratty fleece blanket covered his lower body. Skinny Pete was sitting on one side of him, taking rips from a bong, while Badger was seated on the foot of the bed, intensely fiddling with a video game controller. There was a half-full plastic bottle of vodka on the nightstand next to them. They had apparently dragged the television in here and were playing Smash Brothers with Jesse – well, “with” was questionable, because Jesse had a controller next to his hand but wasn’t even touching it or looking at the screen. Jesse’s eyes were half-closed and distant. He was smiling slightly. He looked at peace. 

“What the fuck is this?” 

Skinny Pete turned in surprise and Badger jumped to his feet. 

“Yo, what’s wrong, man? We cool! We cool! We’re invited!” 

“I’m not talking to you, Badger. I’m talking to Jesse.” 

Jesse groaned. “We’re playing Smash. Problem?” 

“Yes,  _ problem! _ How did these guys even get in here?” 

Jesse glanced over at the door with the broken window. The cardboard had been completely torn off and the door was propped open. Right. 

“I don’t know what Jesse told you,” Walter continued, his voice simmering with barely-suppressed rage, “but now is not a good time. Jesse is sick. And you two need to leave.” 

“Who are you, his dad?” Badger laughed. 

“I’m his boss.” 

Badger shot Skinny Pete an incredulous look, but Pete’s expression of fear seemed to convince him that now was, not in fact, a good time to be playing Smash. 

“Sorry, guys.” Jesse said, his petulance apparently having returned in the presence of his possé. “Mr. White is here. Always harshing the buzz.” 

“Jesus, Jesse. You sound like a teenager in a D.A.R.E. commercial,” Walter growled, purposefully ignoring the real reason Jesse’s comment had infuriated him –  _ how many druggies had Jesse told his real name? _

“We’re good, Mr. W. – we’re solid. We’ll get out of the way, okay? See, look, we’re gone.” Skinny Pete tried to placate Walt as he and Badger hurriedly packed up their liquor and weed and beat a hasty retreat out of the bedroom door. Walt turned off the TV, then walked to the living room and switched off the stereo. When he returned to the bedroom, Jesse had lit a cigarette and was smoking it in bed, ashing into the sheets. Walt let him have it. 

“What the hell were you thinking, you little idiot? You want the cops to come answer a noise complaint and find you smoking weed with the door open? They don’t need a warrant if they can see you! How are you going to explain the IV? Or the morphine on your tox screen?” 

“I got lonely.” When Jesse sulked like this it made Walt want to smack him. “You left me alone and I was bored and shit. What? No having fun?” 

“No, Jesse. No having fun. I’m just trying to save you from prison and from overdoses because I’m a big mean old man who hates the concept of  _ fun _ .” 

“My girlfriend’s dead. I’m like, grieving. You should feel sorry for me.” He said it without thinking, like it was a joke. 

“Jane is not even in the  _ ground _ and you’re lying in her deathbed and using her to guilt trip me so you can smoke weed and play ‘Smash.’ ” Well, that wiped the smirk off Jesse’s face. Walt continued: “Oh, you didn’t like that, did you? You can dish it out but you can’t take it? You stupid, useless junkie bitch.” 

Jesse whipped the video game controller at Walt with all his strength. It missed and collided with the wall with a loud thunk, denting the plaster. Walt lunged at him and clambered onto the bed. Almost without thinking, his hands were around Jesse’s neck. 

Jesse stopped fighting almost immediately. Walt barely even had to squeeze. Just the prospect that Walt might hurt him seemed to be enough to stop Jesse in his tracks. But even though Walt didn’t  _ need _ to squeeze, he did. Just to see if Jesse would let him. 

Jesse let him. Even drugged and malnourished, he could probably still overcome a middle-aged cancer patient, but he just lay there as Walter choked him – one second, two. He closed his eyes and turned his head to the side. A strand of drool trickled down his lips.

Walt’s heart was racing. Jesse didn’t say anything. 

“You still want to die, huh?” Walter whispered as he let his grip slacken. Weakly, Jesse nodded. “Oh,  _ Jesse _ .”

He got up and closed the door as Jesse stayed motionless, then returned to sit on the bed. He slid open the lower drawer of the nightstand. There were condoms in there, and lube. 

And Jesse must have known what was coming next, but he kept his eyes shut as Walt wormed his hand under the blankets and stroked his thigh, then kneaded his ass. Walt coated his hand in lube and forced a finger into Jesse’s opening, then added another seconds later, then a third. Jesse was so tight. Walt had to be the first person to breach this particular hole. He was surprised, honestly, that Jesse wasn’t complaining at all given how forcefully he was being stretched open, but the steady drip of palliative-strength narcotics had to be helping him overcome the discomfort. Jesse was panting. His arms were raised palm-up on the pillows on either side of his head – Walt hadn’t noticed when they got there – and he shook his head slowly from side to side as Walt toyed with him, like a half-hearted protest or a search for an escape route only he could see.

The kid’s pliancy brought Walt’s dick nearly to full attention. He tossed off the covers, gloved up his cock, and forced the head into Jesse. He got about an inch in before he encountered unexpected resistance. He tried to jam it further with a few exploratory thrusts, but met unyielding muscle each time each time. Jesse squirmed and weakly clenched his fists. This wouldn’t do. 

“Up,” he said in the same calm voice he had used to coax Jesse into the shower, and Jesse obeyed. He gently pushed Jesse to his hands and knees, careful of the IV tubing, and tried again. Jackpot. His cock slid in halfway with little difficulty. Walt braced himself against the bed and moved forwards just as Jesse sunk his chest back onto the bed, overwhelmed. The motion pushed his hips further into the air and parted his ass, and he let out a choked, pained moan as Walt’s cock sunk into him to the hilt. 

Walt fucked him forcefully, like an animal. Like the last few times he had fucked Skyler until he had forced her against the refrigerator and her ensuing terror had made their bedroom dead for months. Jesse made wordless, mewling noises that were smothered by the pillows with each thrust that drove home. His bruised thighs, slick with sweat, slapped against Walt’s. 

“Who’s the bitch now?” Walt growled as he dug a hand into Jesse’s hip, forcing himself deeper. 

“I am,” the kid whimpered. “I’m your bitch.” 

_ Your _ bitch? What an addition. 

Walt lasted maybe two minutes before he came, grunting, inside the condom inside Jesse. He pulled out incautiously, leaving the condom inside. A line of spunk oozed down Jesse’s thigh. The face was buried in the pillows. He stayed in the position, ass spread in the air, after Walt withdrew. He was semi-hard. His thighs were trembling. 

Walt gently slid the condom out from Jesse, then, driven by impulse, poked a finger back in to explore. Much easier this time. Sex had really broken him in. Two fingers slid in without resistance. The third was a bit tough. With the fourth, Jesse actually sounded pained, even through the morphine, but once Walt had worked it into his knuckles, he let out a little moan of relief. Walt twisted his hand around inside, stretching the kid open, until he found some spot towards Jesse’s belly that elicited a strangled cry. He massaged that spot with a come-hither motion, petting him from the inside. The noises coming out of Jesse sounded positively pornographic. Jesse squirmed against his touch, first weakly, then more and more violently. His dick wasn’t getting any harder, but clear fluid had begun to drool from the tip. Finally, words came to him: 

“Mr. White…” 

Walt’s hands paused for a second, and Jesse seized the opportunity to collapse, face-down, into the bed. His legs were still spread, his asshole fully exposed. A tight pinpoint at the beginning of their lovemaking, it was now gleaming with lube and spunk, flushed from exertion, and changed in shape – less of a point and more of a moist, loose slit. Seeing it turned Walt on. This may have been nowhere near Jesse’s first fuck, but Walt had turned his body into something new. 

Walt wormed his way on top of Jesse, pressing his body weight against him. He ran his fingers tenderly over his hair and back, comforting him, but also smearing him with what had come out of him – lube, jism, a tiny tinge of blood. Jesse was still trembling. Walt couldn’t tell if he was crying. 

“Was that good for you, too?” 

“Yeah,” Jesse said in a voice so weak it was barely audible. “It was good.” 

Walt turned Jesse onto his side, partially to keep him safe if the booze and morphine made him puke over the night and partially so he could look him in the eyes. Jesse _ had _ been crying, and his face was flushed, but somehow he looked more okay than he had since Jane’s death. He had bitten his lips as they fucked hard enough that they were smeared with clotted brown blood. His eyes were half shut but the pupils underneath were awake. He looked ashamed, which meant at least he cared about something. 

Walt let Jesse have a few swigs from the vodka to calm his nerves, took a few swigs himself, then stashed it in the car so Jesse didn’t wake up in the middle of the night and drink himself into respiratory failure. Then he climbed back into bed and held him tight until they both drifted to sleep. 

* * *

The next day was Walt’s return to work. He got ready, dressed in yesterday’s clothes and left while Jesse was still asleep. He changed the bag on the IV, spiking it with a little more morphine this time in the hopes that Jesse would sleep more and cause less trouble, and took Jesse’s cell phone with him. 

After his ill-received speech about the Boeing 737 disaster, he used his lunch break to review Jesse’s text logs. There was Jane – he didn’t read those. Most of Jesse’s text logs were with pseudonymous individuals and seemed to be comprised only of snippets like “yo,” “sup,” and “you there?” which presumably had instigated phone calls to hash out drug deals. Jesse’s texts to Skinny Pete were largely of that nature, albeit interspersed with “free this wknd?” and “call me we party.” Badger seemed like the only non-Jane person who actively communicated with Jesse in writing. Their text log was a long, involved, frequently incoherent series of exchanges about weed, women, video games, sci fi, and (surprisingly to Walt) popular science. 

Walt studied the messages and used them as a template to text Badger. 

_ hey man im not feelin so good thanks for the hang out last night but i might not see you for a while we’re still cool _

A few minutes later, the reply came back: 

_ naw i get it jesse!! feel good! u ok with that guy tho? he seemed kinda scary hope you not in shit _

Badger was a moron and Walter was so, so glad that he had put “that guy” in writing and not “Mr. White.” He texted back: 

_ that guys ok acts tough but he real soft. all good catch you when we do _

After lunch, HR sent him home. He went back to the house he had shared with Skyler. He packed his things, scrounged up his hidden stashes of cash, and spent a while on the computer replying to apartment listings. He went to Skyler’s bedroom looking for something to take with him, both to hurt her and to have a memento – maybe the lingerie she’d worn on their honeymoon – but she had already taken anything that might matter to her in her suitcases to stay with her sister. Ah, well. Back to Jesse’s. 

* * *

When Walt came back, Jesse was lounging awake in bed, still naked, watching some kind of travel program on Mount Everest. Walt had no idea how he would react after their last night, but it was as if nothing had happened. Jesse looked happy to see him. 

“Yo.” 

Walt used all of his experience teaching to summon up his best paternal smile. “How you feeling, champ? Hanging in there? You want dinner?” 

Jesse laughed. “Wow, you’re a nerd. Nah, not hungry.” 

“When’s the last time you’ve eaten?” 

Jesse paused to think, but didn’t answer. 

“Jesse, come on. You need to have something.” 

“It’s the drugs. I couldn’t eat even if I wanted to.” 

“But you can drink?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Hang on, then. Watch your show. I’ll be back.” 

Half an hour later, Walt was back with Panera Bread: a sandwich and salad for him, and a banana and berry smoothie for Jesse loaded up with peanut butter, protein powder, and every other caloric-sounding addon on their menu board. He pulled up a chair right next to the bed, ate as Jesse sipped his drink, and pretend to be invested in the inane TV. 

“So, how was your day?” Walt was doing the same phony Dad Voice again, but this time Jesse fell for it. 

“Fine, I guess. TV, video games, jerking off, the usual.” He paused a second and smiled. “The shit in this drippy bag needle thing is  _ real-ly _ good.” 

“Safer than street junk. Glad you like it.” Then, Walt decided to push his luck. “And how was last night?” 

Jesse’s smile vanished. He slurped on the smoothie. “It happened.” 

The documentary on the television played as they sat in silence. A storm was brewing on Mount Everest. The climbers were lost. Some were dying. There were shots of corpses buried in the snow. 

“Do you want it to happen again?” 

“Do I need to answer that?” 

“If you don’t answer, can I take it as a yes?” 

Jesse said nothing. On the TV, the disaster continued to play. 

Walt placed a hand on Jesse’s thigh. Jesse didn’t respond. He squeezed. Jesse didn’t respond. 

“ _ Tell me, Jesse,”  _ he hissed, under his breath. “ _ It’s a yes or it’s a no. I fuck you or I don’t. Ignoring me here is not an option. _ ” 

Jesse paused for a second, seemingly in deep thought, before summoning his response: “Do what you want, okay? I like it when you’re here. Better than alone.” 

After they finished their dinner, Walt shut off the television, ignoring Jesse’s noises of dismay about the climbers’ fate. He fucked Jesse in the ass again, face to face this time, forcing the kid’s legs back and apart until his ankles were over the headboard and Walt could get as deep as he wanted while still watching Jesse sob and blush as he squirmed. No real tears this time. Jesse had gotten used to it. He guided Jesse’s hand onto his own cock and had him play with himself as he was fucked. 

“_Please,_” Jesse whimpered, and Walt didn’t know if it meant “please stop” or “please fuck me harder,” and when he said as much Jesse ground against his cock with a vengeance but also started to cry. 

* * *

Walt dropped his belongings off at his new apartment, but he slept every night at Jesse’s. The rental was plausible deniability – if Skyler was planning to file divorce papers, finding out that Walt was residing with his former student and ostensible pot dealer would not bode well for him – but otherwise nearly unnecessary. On the nights he and Jesse fucked, they slept in the same bed. On other nights, which were the minority, he slept on the futon in the living room. 

Once, on his way into the apartment, Walt ran into Jane’s father leaving her place. Although he tried not to show it, he was terrified to be seen with keys to Jesse’s – what could this man possibly think was going on? – but Donald had met his eyes, nodded sadly and slightly, and left. Right. He had told Donald that he was Jesse’s father. The man had just lost his daughter to an overdose. To him, Walt’s visits to Jesse every night were a father going above and beyond the call of duty to keep his son safe. Jesse might be a junkie, but Walt was lucky to have him alive. 

The perversity of that encounter made Walt’s dick diamond hard as he choked Jesse with it that night. 

* * *

Walter had a meeting with Gus Fring in the fried chicken place. They talked about a business arrangement. Gus could appreciate Walt’s intelligence, but he didn’t like his involvement with Jesse, didn’t like Walt’s attachment to the unpredictable little junkie. 

“I get it,” Walt said. “He’s been a loose cannon in the past. The kid has emotional issues. But I figured it out. He’s my partner. He does what I say now. When’s the last time you remember him causing problems? One hundred percent, Jesse Pinkman is under my control.” 

Gus smiled, and Walt couldn’t tell how much of it was sadism and how much of it was good business sense. Gus offered Walt the job. 

* * *

That evening, Walt cut down the ration of morphine in Jesse’s IV. Jesse awoke at 6:00 AM, irritable for reasons beyond his discernment. 

“Hey,” Walt whispered tenderly in his ear. “We have a job.” 

“Job…?” 

“We’ll be cooking together again.” 

“What? I don’t wanna cook. Don’t we have enough cash? Can’t we just get high together?” 

Walt wrapped his arm against Jesse’s waist and pulled him in tighter. “But you’re so  _ good  _ at cooking. I need you there with me, Jesse.” 

Jesse snickered. “You  _ need _ me? Seriously?”

Walt’s voice was deadly serious. “Yes. I need you.” 

Jesse pressed a hand on Walt’s cheek and then kissed him, sloppily. They showered together and traded handjobs before sunrise. Walt made coffee and cooked them both a full diner-style breakfast, which was his habit whenever had something to apologize for or a favor to ask. Jesse was eating again with the help of a cocktail of pills Walt had scored from Saul’s “doctor” friend that dampened the side effects of the morphine. That cocktail included some of the same antiemetics Walt took to help with his chemo. Walt and Jesse were so different, sometimes it made Walt smile to notice these little things they had in common. 

They went to Gus Fring’s underground meth lab and they cooked. Walt had a bottle of oxy, purchased off Saul’s connections. He gave Jesse one pill at 11:00 AM and another at 3:00 PM, precisely. Jesse tucked the first one under his tongue and crunched the second one like a child with a Jolly Rancher, hungry for a harder hit. He did an excellent job cooking, better than he ever had in the RV, and followed each of Walt’s instructions to the letter. The thirst for drugs kept him motivated. 

On the drive home, Jesse climbed after Walt into the driver’s side of the Pontiac. Without even being prompted, he kneeled near the pedals and licked Walt’s dick all over before taking it deep down his throat, muscles spasming against it. Walt ran his fingers through his messy hair. “Good boy,” he whispered, and Jesse moaned as he retched. 

* * *

Walt fucked Jesse in all the ways Skyler wouldn’t let him fuck her. Anal was a given, but there were other ways, too. Skyler – as she’d shown against the fridge – didn’t like to be forced, but Jesse came harder the more violent Walt got. Jesse seemed up for anything as long as Walt praised him for enduring it and held him tight afterwards. 

Jesse was so easy to manipulate. A low dose of opiates and he fucked like a whore, so hungry to please and win his next fix. A high dose, and he fucked like a corpse; not very reactive, but Walt could do anything. After one spat, Walt shot two extra doses of morphine into Jesse’s IV port, forced him to deep throat while sedated, and pissed down his esophagus. The drugs made Jesse so relaxed that his throat was nearly indistinguishable from his ass – no gagging, no spasms, just a deep, open hole. The kid aspirated a bit of the urine, and Walt sat by listening to him choke until he was satisfied that Jesse was in no risk of suffocation –  _ god, what a way to go _ – and seconds later Jesse was babbling again, begging for Walt to ass-fuck him instead, and Walt obliged. 

He loved Jesse more and more as the fight went out of him. When Jesse ashed in bed, Walt pressed a lit cigarette against his cock, the painkillers mixing the agony into pleasure, and listened to him moan. When Jesse insulted Walt, Walt choked him and fucked him until Jesse would say anything Walt wanted, tell Walt that he was just a bitch, just Walt’s little junkie whore. Walt loved him when he begged to be fucked. It was easy to make the kid beg. The threat of abandonment did all the work for him. 

A few weeks after their first time together, Walt took Jesse to a clinic. Thankfully, Jesse tested completely clean – he had been lucky to dodge any lasting consequences from his time in the trap house. After that, they dispensed with the condoms. Walt loved seeing his spunk leak out of Jesse’s hole. Proof Jesse was his. 

Walt had initially chosen to get Jesse onto morphine instead of oxy or heroin so that he could hook the IV up and leave Jesse alone, but he hadn’t anticipated them spending the day at work together and the night fucking. As they continued to cook together, Walt basically abandoned the IV. Judiciously dispensed oxys made Jesse easy to control, and the spikes of high and low opiate levels in his bloodstream gave a little variation to Jesse’s attitude. 

They could meet their quotas at the meth lab in a five-day work week and still have the weekend off. Every Friday evening, Walt let Jesse have his cell phone back, left him a couple hundred in pocket money and enough oxy to stave off the dope-sickness (but not enough to get properly high), and made himself scarce from the apartment. As much as he loved having the kid around, absence made the heart grow fonder, and giving Jesse a little freedom affirmed to Walt that they were fucking because they both wanted it, not because his partner had no other choice. Plus, on the weekends, Skyler let Walt see the kids.

Some weekends, Jesse brought friends over; sometimes, he went out, to their places or to bars; other times, he stayed at home, watching his documentaries, drinking alone, and blasting EDM. Sometimes he texted Walt in the evening, begging Walt to come back to the apartment to shoot him up and hold him through the night. Walt always complied. 

One Saturday night, after Junior and Holly were in bed, Skyler let Walt stay. They drank wine together, talked about the kids, talked about them. Walt’s moods – the states he’d get in when he scared her, like when he fucked her against the fridge – had dissipated after he moved out. He was a good father again when he was there. The divorce was what was best for them, but maybe Walt could still be a part of the children’s lives – of Skyler’s. Holly deserved to know her father before, well – 

The conversation moved Walt to tears. Skyler kissed him. They made love with a tenderness they hadn’t felt in perhaps a decade, and Walt woke up in his marital bed for the first time in months with his wife in his arms. 

It was a lot easier to keep his marriage when he could take his frustrations outside it. He could thank Jesse. 

One Sunday night, Jesse didn’t come home. Walt hadn’t seen him since he’d left on Friday after work. Monday morning, Walt called Saul and asked for a trace. Jesse was back at the trap house. 

* * *

When Walt had “rescued” Jesse from here the first time after Jane’s death, the squalor had appalled him. It wasn’t so shocking now when he knew what to expect. Jesse was in the same state as last time, sprawled strung out on the floor. 

Walt kneeled down next to Jesse’s prone body, spat on his hand, and slapped him. No response. He tried again, harder. Jesse’s head collided with the ground with an unpleasantly loud crack. A few of the addicts around them looked up at the noise, but most of them returned to their own little worlds within seconds. He leaned down onto Jesse’s chest and jabbed one hand into the side of his neck, not to choke him but to feel his pulse. Jesse was breathing. His heart was beating slowly, but it was beating. He just wasn’t there.

“Jesse?” No response. “Talk to me, Jesse. No bullshit. I know you’re awake.” Still nothing. 

“Jesse, I miss you, okay? I need you. You’re my partner. You have to come back home.” Silence.

“Jesse, you are going to wake up  _ right now _ or I’ll get Mike to shoot Badger and Skinny Pete and anyone else in your life who still tolerates your worthless junkie ass.” That didn’t work, either. 

“Jesse – please be safe. I’m so sorry about everything. I know I hurt you. I didn’t mean to. Everything I did, I did it because I love you.” A drop of something fell onto Jesse’s face, and Walt realised he was crying. It was freeing to cry here, in the trap house, where few watched and nobody cared. He buried his face in Jess’s warm, gently heaving chest and abandoned himself to the tears. 

When Walt was done crying, Jesse was still comatose. For a few seconds, he lay against Jesse’s body, until he remembered something Saul’s “doctor” had given him weeks ago: naloxone syringes. He still had them stashed in the trunk. He went back to the car, retrieved the one, and when he returned, kneeled down and shot it into Jesse’s thigh. He crouched next to him a few minutes, waiting, and then, miraculously, Jesse’s eyes fluttered open. 

“Jesse! Oh God, I’m so glad you’re alive–” Walt said, before he was cut short as Jesse punched him in the face. 

Walt rubbed his cheek. It was lucky he was out of work and out of the house, because that was going to leave a nasty bruise. “I hope that made you feel better.” 

“Why are you here? What the fuck is this? The fuck you jab me with?” 

“Naloxone. It’s an opioid antagonist. Pulls you right out of overdosing and sobers you up instantly. The downside is, that means instant withdrawal. So I understand if you’re not feeling great.” 

“I wasn’t OD’ing, I just didn’t want to talk to you!” That sounded like a lie. Walt hoped it was a lie – the things he’d said to Jesse while he was unconscious didn’t exactly reflect favorably.

“I’m sorry. You can hit me again if it makes you feel bett--” 

Jesse reared up and hit him again. Walt fell backwards to the floor and stayed down, figuring it would make him seem less threatening. 

“Is that out of your system now?” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Jesse, why are you back here? We have drugs at home. Purer, safer ones. If it’s meth or coke you want, all you have to do is ask, you know?” 

“I don’t want to be there!” Jesse was tearing up. “It’s a mess.” 

Walt raised an eyebrow and looked from side to side. The floor of the squat was covered in a thick layer of dust and littered with discarded syringes and other various fixing. Behind him, half-clad junkies wandered aimlessly. “And… this is better?” 

“Yeah. There’s stuff everywhere, but it’s not  _ her _ stuff.” Right. Jesse’s room was still full of half-burnt scented candles and discarded lingerie. Walt had ascribed that to Jesse’s general inability to clean up after himself. “It smells like her. And I wake up and I think she’s lying in bed with me. But it’s just _ you _ .” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“You should have died instead of her. I should have died. Fuck, I don’t know. We were gonna get clean. We were gonna go to Santa Fe, and New Zealand, and, like, have adventures and shit. You don’t deserve to live in the same world as her. All we do now is have fucked-up sex and cook meth.” 

“I thought you liked our… physical relationship.” 

“Sure. I like  _ doing it  _ with you, whatever. I like our  _ love life. _ ” Jesse spat, mocking his phrasing. “But fuck, I thought we were friends. You put on this whole role model act and tell me you know best, then you choke me and piss on me. If you like me so much, how come we don’t do normal friend shit? Or couple shit? Whatever you think we are?” 

“Such as?” 

“I dunno – a museum? The zoo? Go-karts?”

Walt had to restrain himself from laughing. “We’ll go to the zoo, okay, Jesse? If that’s what you want. Just come home.” 

“What home?” 

“We’ll get you a new place. I can stop staying over. I have my apartment. Just – you can’t stay here.” 

“Sure I can, bitch. Just watch me.” 

Still lying on the floor, Walt reached over towards Jesse to pet his hair. Like lighting, Jesse was on his feet. He kicked Walt in the head, shattering his glasses and splitting his lip. Walt’s world was a blur. There was more glass shattering, a sickening cracking noise, and pain – his head, arms, legs, dull pains and sharp ones – the beating blended together into chaos. He had forgotten what Jesse could be like when he was sober.

Above the pain, Jesse was holding some kind of implement, and yelling: “How many times do I need to tell you to fuck off before you leave me alone?” 

_ Thud. _ “You piece of shit.” 

_ Thud. _ “Fucking pervert.” 

_ Thud. _ “Who’s the bitch now?” 

_ Thud. _ “Say it.” 

_ Thud. _ “I said, fucking say it!” 

It was Walt’s turn to pretend to be unconscious. Finally, Jesse seemed to grow frustrated with Walt’s lack of response and stormed off, discarding whatever he’d been holding with a clatter. With some difficulty, Walt opened his swollen eyes. His head was throbbing in agony. There was a broken beer bottle a few feet in front of him surrounded by shards of glass. A few more feet past that, Jesse had dropped a wooden baseball bat. He must have stashed it nearby for self-defense before Walt had arrived. 

Satisfied that Jesse was gone, Walt popped an oxy from the bottle in his pocket. His turn. It took the pain from the beating from excruciating to bearable. He slowly retraced his steps back to the entrance of the crack house. The junkies ambling around seemed to notice him even less now that he was covered in dirt and bruises. Guess he blended right in. 

There was a jumpy, filthy tweaker smoking near the entrance. Walt traded him two bucks for two cigarettes. He made a call on his work phone, then leaned up against the walls like all the other pieces of human refuse around him and smoked the cigarettes indoors, pausing a few minutes in between them, checking his watch. A car pulled up outside. Walt waited a few more minutes and then headed back upstairs. 

Enough time had passed for the naloxone to wear off. Jesse was slumped against a wall again, syringe by his side, drooling. 

“Jesus,” he slurred, “you look like shit.” 

“I’m here to take you home, Jesse. You can come with me the easy way, or you can come with Mike the hard way. So, how’ll it be?” 

Jesse tried to spit at him, but lacked the fine motor skills. The wad of phlegm landed on his jeans. Walt looked down at Jesse with pity, then grabbed him by his armpits and dragged him down the stairs, out the door, and into Mike’s car. 

* * *

With Mike’s help, Walt heaved Jesse’s semi-conscious body onto Jesse’s bed. Then he left and called Gus. There had been difficulties. Gus was understanding but firm. Could Walt come over now and cook? Yes, Gus understood that he was injured. He had medics to patch Walt up and helping hands to do the physical work so long as Walt showed up to give the orders. The meth could wait, but not very long.

Jesse had broken Walt’s nose and left arm, lacerated his face in multiple places, and bruised him to the point that he could barely stand without painkillers. He sat in a chair in the lab and talked Gus’s goons through the cook. 

At the end of the day, Walt returned to his bachelor apartment, aching and furious. On frustrating days, he used to blow off steam by getting a little rough with Skyler, or a lot rougher with Jesse. Now he was solo and had to settle for jerking himself off in a hot bath, with his left arm elevated above the water so as not to get the brace wet. 

The next day, Gus supplied one goon, a folding wheelchair, and a new lab assistant: Gale Boetticher, the eager-to-please young chemist who had set up the lab beneath the laundry. Gale and Walt hit it off immediately. Walt hadn’t realised how much he missed being able to work beside people like Gale: intelligent, stable, sober… and this new assistant seemed to admire Walter White almost as much as Jesse had. It was more flattering to be idol-worshipped by a fellow chemist than by a meth dealer. Gale made amazing coffee, and Walt sipped a mug of it as the goon acted as his arms and legs, pushing him around the lab and turning the knobs he pointed at. From his chair, Walt felt like a distinguished professor lecturing a particularly keen grad student. 

It was a good day. He barely thought of Jesse. 

On Wednesday, a few hours after lunch, Walt got a text on his work phone: 

_ fuck you!!!! _

Of course, it was from Jesse. Walt’s phone buzzed again and again with texts over the next fifteen minutes or so, all basically identical to the first one, varying in punctuation and occasionally in choice of profanity. 

Finally, the phone actually rang. Walt answered. 

“Hello.” 

“Fuck you!” 

“Jesse, you know I’m at work. If you want to talk you can call me when I’m done. And yes, ‘fuck you’, I know. After the first ten texts, I got the memo.” 

He hung up before Jesse could start swearing at him again, and Gale raised an eyebrow. “Phone calls from the ex?” 

Walt smiled. “Something like that. Can’t let it get in the way of business.” 

* * *

Jesse phoned again at exactly 5:00 PM. Walt called back as soon as he got into his car. 

“Fuck you, you dumbfuck faggot bitch!” Jesse answered and cut right to the chase. 

“What, not even a hello? Calm down. Use your big boy words.” 

“Give me my goddamn money!” 

“No.” 

“You owe me!” 

“Jesse, the last time we talked, you broke my arm. I don’t think I owe you money.” 

“That was my money!” 

“I tried to keep it safe for you and you blackmailed me and blew it on heroin. So, no. This isn’t happening.” 

“You fucking cunt, bitch, scumbag, fuckface, fuck you –” 

“Call me back when you’re ready to be a man about this,” Walt said, and hung up. 

A few minutes passed. Walt waited in the parked car, drumming his fingers. The phone rang. He answered. 

“So, Jesse, are we ready to try that again with a wider vocabulary?” 

“I’m sorry I swore at you, Mr. White.” 

“Okay, that’s a good start. Now, what is this about?” 

“I ran out of money and I can’t buy more heroin.” 

“Jesse, it’s a few days until the first of the month. Do you have rent money?” 

“No! And it would be really nice if you could help me out with that too.” 

Walt rubbed his temples – a reflex that gave him an unexpected jolt of pain thanks to his facial lacerations -- and sighed. “Well, at least you’ve learned to ask politely, but like I said before, after you just beat me with a baseball bat and then called me a faggot, I don’t really feel that inclined to give you drugs or rent money. Also, I think your priorities for those requests might be reversed.” 

“I’m really, really sorry, Mr. White. Please. I’m desperate.” 

“What’s in it for me?” 

“You can come and have sex with me again?” 

Walt laughed. “You’re the one calling me names, but aren’t you basically a crack whore?” 

“Hey, I don’t do crack! Just meth, powder, H…” Walt could sense that the comment had struck a nerve, as much as Jesse tried to joke it off. 

“You want to apologize? Then admit to it.” 

“ _ I’m a crack whore. I’m a junkie. I’m human trash _ .” Jessie’s voice was small, breathy, desperate, filled with shame. Walt sensed a bit of genuine self-abasement buried in an attempt at manipulation – he had heard what Jesse sounded like when he was turned on and when he was drowning in despair, and his voice now sounded less like either of those things and more like an imitation of a phone sex operator. “I made a bunch of mistakes and I’m sorry, so will you come over and fuck me and give me drugs?” 

“Well, I’m glad to see you’re capable of honest self-reflection. But no. I’m not interested.” 

“Please? Please. I’m really, really sorry. I’ll do anything, okay?”

“Jesse, I’m back with Skyler.” 

There was a long pause on the end of the phone. “I didn’t know you split up.” 

“Why did you think I had so much time for you?” 

“I dunno, I guess I thought because you liked me? Because you cared about me? You always said we were partners.” 

“I have a new assistant, too. A chemist. Name’s Gale Boetticher. Highly qualified, very professional.” 

“...Oh. I guess you have everything all figured out.” 

“Yeah.” 

There was another awkward silence. Then, Jesse said, quiet and matter-of-fact: “It’s cool you’re happy. See you round.” and hung up the phone. 

* * *

On Friday evening, Walt came over to Jesse’s house with a duffel bag and let himself in. The living room looked untouched from when he left. He headed to the bedroom. 

The lights were off, blinds drawn. Walt felt something crunch under his feet as he stepped inside. The blankets on the bed were drawn, a human-sized lump visible underneath. The entire floor was covered in trash – empty beer cans, packets of cigarettes and rolling papers, overflowing ashtrays, and dirty laundry, but mostly shards and splotches of something unidentifiable in various shades of pastel. The reek of the air was overwhelming and unexpected. Sickenly sweet, its strongest element was floral, with undertones of old champagne, musk, and cleaning chemicals. The closest comparison Walt could think of was the smell of Emilio’s corpse after a day baking in the RV. He stood in horror for a second, until he realised the main source of the reek: the scented candles that had littered every surface of the room were gone. Jesse had smashed some and melted others. The suffocating perfumed smell was coming from the fragments on the floor. 

He advanced into the room, candle wax squishing under his shoes with every step, and pulled off the bedclothes. Jesse was curled up, naked and quivering. A pool of vomit had crusted on the fitted sheet from who knows how long ago, and more puke was smeared on his arms, face, and chest. He looked like he was trying to fight off another round of heaving, but when he saw Walt, his face lit up. 

“You came back?” 

“Somebody’s got to take care of you.” 

Jesse flexed his muscles and squirmed, trying and failing to get up. 

“I feel real bad. Help me.” 

“I can’t pick you up, Jesse. Remember? I have a broken arm.” 

With apparent effort, Jesse dragged himself up onto his forearms arms and slid off the bed directly into the mess of ash, booze, and wax on the floor. 

“Good boy, good boy. I’m proud of you, okay? Look, I have something for you.” Two pills: one oxy, one antiemetic. He kneeled down. Jesse, instead of stretching out his hand, parted his lips and looked up. Walt didn’t know if the gesture was calculatedly erotic, calculatedly pathetic, or just lazy, but he put one pill between the boy’s lips, let him swallow it, and then inserted the next one. Jesse’s lips were soft and unnaturally dry. “You want another bath? Let’s get in the bath.” 

Walt braced Jesse with one arm and helped him stand and walk into the bathroom. Jesse stumbled into the tub, let Walt draw the water, and smiled weakly as Walt scrubbed the chunks of vomit from his upper body. “Not as sexy as the last bath, huh?” 

“I’m just glad you’re okay.” 

“Look. I got clean! I mean, not literally clean and all that. Off heroin. It sucked. But I did it.” Walt wasn’t sure how that statement interacted with the opiates he’d just fed Jesse, but now was not a good time to mention that. 

“That’s good. I’m proud of you.” 

“Nah. It’s not good at all.” Jesse was still smiling, but looked like he was about to cry. “Jane and I used to be like, oh, we’ll get sober! Everything’s gonna be so perfect, it’s just the drugs fucking us up and underneath we’re great. But I quit and I guess I’m still all fucked up. I can’t blame that on meth or H or anything. That one’s all on me.” 

“Ssh. Jesse, it’s okay. Everything’s going to be good. The last time you used was what? Five days ago?” 

“Two.” 

“Coming off the drugs is harder than being on them, okay, son? You did great.” He ran a hand through Jesse’s greasy hair. “We’re partners and we’ll get through this. The end is in sight. Everything  _ is _ going to be perfect. We’ll get you all clean and we’ll go to the zoo.” 

Jesse went in for a kiss. Walt dodged it – the kid had spent days smoking, puking, and not brushing his teeth – but gave him a peck on the cheek. It was harder to wash Jesse with only one hand, but he made do. 

* * *

All of Jesse’s clothes were unwashed and mixed in with the filth on the bedroom floor, so Walt helped him dress in the change of clothing that he had brought in his duffel bag – it was far too big, but so was everything else Jesse owned. He packed up the IV supplies in the bag and they took a taxi back to Walt’s place. 

Jesse had never been over here. Walt hadn’t even told him the address. He showed Jesse to the bedroom, and Jesse burrowed into the sheets. 

“Your place is nice,” he murmured. He looked half asleep, perhaps from the exhaustion of the last two days of withdrawals, perhaps from the oxycodone tablet hitting him hard after the little break had taken a chunk out of his tolerance. 

“Thanks. You want anything to drink? Coffee? I have decaf.” 

“Decaf would be cool. Thanks.” 

Walt brewed them a pot and gave Jesse some time to get settled. He came back and let Jesse drink his in bed while he sat on the desk chair beside him. 

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” Jesse said. “You replaced me pretty quickly.” 

“Jesse… Gale is just an assistant. Skyler’s my wife. They’re not the same thing as you.” 

“What am I?” 

“You’re my partner.” 

“Shit, that’s so gay. And corny.” Jesse laughed. “Now what?” 

“Now I’m going to set up the morphine drip and get you some rest, okay?” 

The light went out of Jesse’s eyes. “But – I quit, Mr. White. Two days ago. Remember?” 

“Yes. And I appreciate that, and I understand that. But the last two days haven’t been great, have they? I want you to feel better. You want to feel good, right?” 

“You… seemed so proud and shit. It was hard. You said when I got clean we were gonna go to the zoo.” 

“And we will. We will. But for now, you don’t need to fight so hard. Just relax. Let me take care of you.” 

“Because you know best?” 

“Yes. You trust me, right?” 

The kid bit his lip. “...Yeah. Partners, right? Sure. I trust you.” 

Jesse let Walt rig up the drugged saline bag on the stand and fix the catheter into his vein. His face was calm, but there was a little twinge of worry in his eyes: a twinge that said,  _ I trust you, but please, don’t fuck this up. _ When the IV was seated, Walt sat on the edge of the bed and stroked Jesse’s forehead. 

He was doing this because he cared for Jesse. He couldn’t stand to see Jesse flailing around like he had been, suffering, hurting himself. Yes, this was all for Jesse’s sake – not because Walt liked the Jesse who begged him for morphine and let him fuck him like a ragdoll better than the Jesse who lay in his own vomit for days or the Jesse who broke his arm with a baseball bat. 

Not  _ just  _ because of that.

As Jesse drifted off into a narcotized slumber, Walt leaned over and kissed him on the lips, then unbuttoned his fly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the bad ending. 
> 
> Good ending to come, in which everything is perfect (as it could be given the circumstances) and they go to the zoo.


	2. Passing the Days

Walt woke Jesse early Saturday morning so they could talk about house rules before Walt went to visit Skyler. Jesse didn’t seem completely alert – the morphine was hitting him hard after his little holiday from it – but he did his best to listen.

“I know it’s been rough lately. If you want to stay in bed and rest, that’s probably good for you. If you want to go out, that’s fine too – but text me where you’re going, okay? I don’t want to worry.” Walt usually tried to avoid documenting his interactions with Jesse in text messages, but given the amount of calls they’d shared lately and the fact that Jesse was currently living in his apartment, if anybody seriously looked into the relationship between the two men the text log this would generate would be the least of their concerns.

“You can have your stoner friends over if you want, but don’t draw any heat like last time – no loud music, and draw the curtains before you do anything illegal. I don’t know what you’ve told them about me already, but if they ask you anything about this situation, you don’t tell them anything except that I’m helping you get off the drugs. If those guys roll, I don’t want them to spill anything more than they already know. Got it?” Jesse nodded. 

“I’m sorry I don’t have a big flatscreen TV, or video games, or any of that other stuff. If you want a Nintendo or something, just let me know and I’ll buy it. Out of my share, since it’s for my place. Anything you want. Just say the word. Saul still has money for you for when you’re feeling better.” 

Jesse said, groggily: “I want Pop Tarts.” 

“...Okay. No fancy electronics, or anything?” 

“I dunno. Maybe later. Can you get me Pop Tarts?” 

“Of course. What flavor?” 

“Red. Get beer, too.” 

“I don’t want you drinking alone. Later. But I’ll get you Pop Tarts.” 

“Okay,” Jesse said, only slightly put out. Walt guessed that he’d expected Walt to refuse but wanted to see how far he could push his luck. “Wait! Get Froot Loops, too. And Funions. Get a  _ ton _ of breakfast stuff.” 

Somehow, Walt had a feeling Jesse’s grocery requests were intended for a weed-fueled hangout instead of a breakfast, but if Jesse’s plan for the weekend was to obey Walt’s rules and get stoned in his apartment, he would forgive a little duplicity. He got dressed, drove to the nearest gas station, and spent about a hundred dollars in cash on snack foods. When he got back to the apartment, Walt popped two of the Pop Tarts in the toaster and shared a preservative-laden breakfast in bed with Jesse as a show of solidarity. He kissed Jesse goodbye on the forehead and mussed up his hair affectionately before heading back to his other home. 

* * *

Skyler answered the door. “Walt. Oh, God.” 

Walt smiled sheepishly. He had tried his best earlier to cover over his bruises, but they were at the level where makeup took “beat to shit” to “beat to shit and covered with flesh-tone paint,” so he’d settled with taping gauze over the most mottled and lacerated areas, and there was nothing he could do to hide the brace on his arm. “You should see the other guy.” 

She didn’t laugh at that. He hadn’t expected her to. They sat together in the kitchen. Walt noticed a full pot of coffee and a cello-wrapped coffee cake on the sideboard, unoffered. Skyler, so full of conviction lately, looked uneasily from side to side and searched for something to say. Whatever sort of conversation she had prepared for, seeing Walt’s injuries had shattered her carefully rehearsed strategy, and gears turned in her head as she regrouped.

“You’re a drug dealer.” 

“Skyler.” 

“The money. The cell phones. Disappearing for days. And now this. Were you going to let Flynn see you like this?” 

“Skyler, I–” 

“I thought you were having an affair.” 

“I’m… I’m so, so sorry.” 

“Did you get those injuries dealing drugs?” 

Walt paused and rolled his tongue in his mouth, trying to think of what to say next. As Skyler was about to speak again, he cut her off: 

“Methamphetamine. I’m a manufacturer, not a dealer. And I’m having an affair.” 

Skyler startled as though he had struck her. She was still for a split second, flustered, then grabbed a folder sitting near her on the table and tossed it toward Walt. 

“Divorce papers. You’re going to sign them, and you’re going to get out of our lives before whoever did this to you comes for our family.” 

“Skyler, I know it’s hard to believe, but the amphetamine synthesis – it’s completely safe. It’s chemistry. Salaried. Like Grey Matter. I’m just a cog in a very large, extralegal industrial machine. Nobody is coming after me.” 

“Then what happened to your face?” 

“A lovers’ quarrel.” 

Her mouth opened and shut in disbelief. 

“Who?” 

“Nobody you know.” 

“ _ Who _ , Walt?” Skyler was furious, Walt defeated. Both their voices cracked trying to hold back tears.

“I’ll sign the divorce papers, Skyler. But please, don’t kick me out of Flynn and Holly’s lives. Family is all I have left.” 

* * *

Walt took his car out into the desert, driving wide and aimless loops on the unpaved reservation roads, the stereo blaring classic rock as loud as it could go, far away from the house and the kids and Skyler. The arid wilds of New Mexico unfurled under the crystal blue sky. In the desert, times and distances and laws seemed meaningless. He had never realised how much he missed coming out here to cook meth.

Some while later, his work phone vibrated against his thigh. A text from Jesse. 

_ need money 4 clothes _

Walt found a place to pull over, turned down the music, and called him. 

“Hey. You home soon?” 

“Hey, Jesse. I might be a while. Can you borrow some of mine?” 

“They’re huge and they’re old people clothes. I’d look retarded.” 

“All your clothes are huge. And I don’t know why you have to talk like that.”

“Yeah, whatever,  _ dad. _ ”

“I’ll stop treating you like a teenager when you start acting your age.” His stern tone softened. “Why don’t I pick you up some on the way home? What size are you?” 

“I want to buy them myself.” 

“It’s probably better if I do it. You stay home and rest.” 

“Look, Mr. White. I get this is some weird sex slave thing for you or whatever, but I’m not really into spending the whole day in bed and having you do everything for me.” 

“You don’t like being taken care of?” 

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. “Never said that. But I like picking out my own underwear.” 

* * *

Walt got back to the apartment an hour later. Jesse was sprawled at the kitchen table, IV stand with him. He had dressed himself in Walt’s rattiest jeans and a ribbed undershirt. The outfit made him look more like his usual stoner self and less like a child in his father’s clothes. 

“You got my money?” 

Walt cleared his throat. “Well, there’s a bit of a problem there. The last time I gave you cash, you went on a drug binge, and...” He gestured to his purple, bandaged face. 

“So you’re gonna keep all of my money. So I can’t buy heroin. Or escape.” 

“Escape? Jesse, you can leave whenever you want.”

“Yeah. I can leave. You still have my car keys, I have no job and no money, and I’m hooked on drugs that  _ you’ve _ been feeding me. But sure, I can leave whenever I want.” 

Walt sighed. “Point taken. Maybe not whenever you want.” 

“Well, I’m glad we’ve cut the bullshit on that one.” 

“I’m almost completely certain that if I gave you ten thousand dollars today, it would be up your veins and you’d be dead by the weekend. Can you honestly deny that?”

“Okay. Maybe don’t give me ten thousand dollars.” 

Walt pulled a wad of fifties out of his jacket pocket and slid off a few bills. “Two hundred?” 

“Four hundred?” 

“Three. No hard drugs – if you want weed, I’ll pay your friends for it – no alcohol unless you ask me first, you show me everything you buy, and you keep the receipts.”

* * *

The next day, Jesse called Badger for a lift and went shopping. He spread the purchases neatly on the kitchen table for Walt’s inspection: a bong, two packs of cigarettes, a week’s worth of shirts and jeans and cargo pants, and three boxes of shelf-stable chocolate milk. The small amount of remaining change was stacked atop the receipts. 

The two of them were smoking up in the bedroom when Walt got back. At Jesse’s request, Walt paid Badger for gas money and for a quarter ounce, and after that Badger made himself scarce. 

Walt flipped through the receipts and counted the change. “So. Fourteen dollars and one cent missing. What else did you buy?”

“Not drugs. Promise. What if I told you it’s a secret?” 

“Then I’d tell you no more cash until you tell me what you spent it on.” 

“I can live with that.” 

Walt sighed. “I have no idea what’s going through your head sometimes.”

“Hey, maybe you don’t need to. I’m starving. Want to go to Denny’s?”

“Again? No. Not particularly. But maybe if you asked nicely.” 

Jesse rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. “ _ Please, _ can we go to Denny’s?” 

They went to Denny’s. After dinner, Walt wrote some emails to house cleaning services and helped Jesse fill out paperwork to break his lease. No sex that night. If Jesse was going to pretend he wasn’t a willing participant in this, Walt could wait for him to beg. 

* * *

He opened the door to Jesse at his computer desk, crouching on the edge of the chair. The monitor displayed a 3D model of a hydrocarbon. 

“Jesse. What are you doing with my lesson materials?” 

“I’m bored.” 

“So bored, you decided to read chemistry handouts. Are you snooping through all my files?” 

“Hey, can’t a guy just learn about science?” 

“Okay. Sure. From whence the sudden interest in senior chemistry? Didn’t you drop chem sophomore year because you were too busy smoking weed?” 

“Changed my mind. I’m not interested any more. Science is dumb as shit. Great teaching,  _ dick. _ ” Jesse closed the slide, powered off the monitor and stormed off to the kitchen. Walt could hear him slamming the cabinet and fridge doors, and a few minutes later came a muffled yell: “It would be cool if you picked up a case of beer!” 

As soon as Jesse had left line of sight, Walt exhaled deeply in horror. He had left Jesse alone for days with his personal computer, logged into all his accounts and completely unsecured, and while he couldn’t think of anything especially sensitive in his files, the mere thought of Jesse having access to send emails under his name gave him chills. Walt turned the computer back on and checked the browser history. No activity that day except a handful of Google searches along the lines of:

_ chemical bond _

_ what is organic _

_ how to algebra _

– either Jesse was smart enough to delete his tracks, which Walt questioned, or the kid’s computer session today had exclusively been a rummage through Walt’s personal files. There was a much larger chunk of activity two days ago: hours of pageviews, some of assorted internet detritus like dashcam videos and clickbait sites, but mostly BDSM porn, straight and gay, in quantity. The entire history ran a bit over three hours, starting not too long after when Jesse had called him about clothes that day and ending about the time Walt got home. 

Walt considered following Jesse into the kitchen and punishing him for the invasion of privacy by dragging him back to the bedroom and taking some inspiration from one of the video clips in the browser history. Choking? Fist-fucking? Bondage? He felt his cock rise. 

But if this was what Jesse was getting up to in his spare time, Walt felt good about his plan to wait.

* * *

A week after the beating, Walt’s bruises had died enough that he no longer needed a wheelchair for a day in the meth lab, and he, Gale, and Victor were falling into a comfortable rhythm of pouring chemicals and twisting dials. While he worked his phone buzzed four times, each text a few minutes apart: 

_ hows work _ __   
_ your place sucks _ __   
_ bored _ _   
_ __ can i call u

Walt didn’t reply. Shortly after, his phone rang. He excused himself, walked to the edge of the lab for privacy, and picked up. 

“Yo. You locked the computer? Seriously?” 

“I’m surprised you thought I’d let you use it in the first place. There are important documents on there. You know, like the ones you were rummaging around in.” 

“Hey, I’ve been tied to a bed for what, like, a month now? See, I don’t even know how long it’s been since every day I wake up and do jack shit. So okay, I’m sorry I got bored.” 

“Oh, so you miss all the interesting, productive things you would do other than getting high. Such as…?”

“You don’t know me!” 

“Maybe I don’t. I have no idea what you’ve been doing with your life other than drugs.”

Jesse was silent for a few seconds. “Fuck you,” he said, and hung up. 

* * *

Walt and Gale finished the current step of the synthesis. Victor made himself scarce as the two chemists took their midday break at one of the tables in the lab. 

“What is that?” Walt asked around a mouthful of his sandwich, gesturing at Gale’s lunch. “Smells a lot better than it looks.” 

“Bulgur, kale, and sesame wheat gluten. Simple and wholesome.” 

“I didn’t know wheat gluten was a thing people ate on purpose. Last year my wife’s sister went on a crusade against it for a few weeks. Tried to convince her that she was poisoning our son by feeding him bread.” 

“Lots of places call it  _ seitan _ , if you’ve heard of that. Wonderful food. Has some branding issues. Quick, easy, tastes just like takeout Chinese.” 

“Maybe you can give me the recipe. I’ve been trying to cook more.” 

“Of course. I’ll get you a photocopy. Trying to lighten your wife’s load a bit?” 

“Actually, we’re... recently separated.” 

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“We’re doing fine. It’s amicable. But I’ve been eating too much delivery.” 

Gale scooped a big forkful from his tupperware. “Speaking of cooking, how have you felt about the lab results so far? Results to your liking?” 

“Honestly? I’m impressed. Great purity, great yields. I thought my partner and I had our process down pat, but having you here as a fresh set of eyes has really taken things to the next level.” 

“Thank you. I’m feeling great about this, too. And this is just the first week! I can’t wait to play around with the process a little more and test out some of my theories on how to speed up the bottlenecks in the reactions. I feel like we could really do some groundbreaking work here. It’s a shame this is all strictly confidential, because it would make for a great practical thesis.” 

“That’s the spirit. I’m looking forward to it. You know Gale, if things keep going like this, I might look back on our work together as the highlight of this decade of my career.” 

Gale swallowed deeply. “Walt. I’m flattered. But the way you say that makes it sound like this isn’t an ongoing project. I thought this was an ongoing project. I turned down a funded Ph.D. for this.” He raked his fork through the remains of his grain bowl. “So if I’m hearing what I think I’m hearing and there’s a time limit to my employment, I’d like to know.” 

“No, no, it’s not like that! I’m not planning on replacing you or anything – you’re doing great. I’m getting older. I’m dealing with some health issues. I’ve been thinking lately that in a year or two I might need to hand over the reigns. Trust me, Gale, your position here is completely secure.”

“Ah. Well, whenever you’re ready to retire, I’d be honored to carry on your legacy. Before then, there’s a lot for me to learn.” Gale wiped off the fork and put the lid back on his tupperware. “Coffee?” 

“Thanks.” 

Gale decanted two mugs from the distillation apparatus. Walt raised his. 

“To science.” 

“To science.” 

* * *

Walt held the front door open with his left shoulder and, with great effort, used his one working arm to shove a large cardboard box into the house. The sky outside was dark. Jesse was smoking weed in the kitchen with no pants on. With the IV stand propped next to him, he lounged against the countertop and blew a smoke ring into the air. 

“I was going to ask you to help me with this, but I see you’ve made yourself at home.” He awkwardly shuffled the box into the living room with his legs and then took a second look. “Are you wearing my briefs?” 

“You ever go to the store to get a thing, and then get distracted by a bunch of cool shit and forget the boring thing you came for? ‘Cuz, uh, that was me yesterday with Wal-Mart and underwear.” 

“Well, you’re lucky. There are a few pairs in this box that just need washing. Went back to your old place and packed up some of your personal effects before the cleaners come tomorrow.”

“Nice. You got the Xbox?” Jesse stretched his shoulders, bracing himself against the sink. 

“Not today. Getting that thing unplugged with one hand wasn’t in the cards.” 

“Damn. Hey, you okay? Because you don’t look so great.” Walt was covering his mouth with one hand. He stumbled in a rush to the washroom. He barely made it in time to throw up.

In his peripheral vision he could see Jesse in the hallway. He had wandered over and was watching dispassionately with glazed, intoxicated eyes. As another wave of nausea seized Walt and he retched again, Jesse turned and walked back down the hallway. Walt purged the rest of the contents of his stomach and collapsed in exhaustion on the tile floor.

A few minutes later, Walt opened his eyes to see Jesse squatting next to him. He was holding a glass of water and a glass of chocolate milk. 

“I’m okay, Jesse.” 

“Like hell you are.” 

“It’s the chemo.” 

“I know.” 

Jesse set down the glasses on the floor next to Walt and left, giving Walt some time to regather his dignity. Walt pulled himself up into a seated position with his back braced against the tub. He took a long swig of the water, gargled some, and drank the rest. Shortly, Jesse returned with the bong and grinder he had left in the kitchen. Slumping against the side of the tub next to Walt, he packed a bowl, lit it, and took a long inhale, then leaned in towards Walt and placed a hand on his cheek. Walt turned his head away. 

“No.” 

Jesse blew a cloud of smoke into the air. “You sure? Isn’t weed supposed to be the best for, like, people with cancer throwing up? That’s why they’re gonna make it legal. On the news and everything.” 

“I’m fine, Jesse. I don’t need your pity.” 

“You think I’m pitying you? You,  _ Heisenberg _ , badass millionaire drug lord with the Hallmark card family and the big-ass house with two cars and a swimming pool? Nah. So you got got lung cancer. I get it, shit sucks. But look what I’ve got. From where I’m standing, your life still seems pretty okay.” 

“Then what’s this about?” 

“I just thought it would be nice.” 

Jesse lit the bowl again, took another rip, and straddled Walt, chest pressed to chest. He cradled Walt’s face in his hands and kissed him. A thin plume of smoke drifted from between their lips. Walt sunk backwards, relaxed, and closed his eyes. Holding himself steady with his good arm, he brushed the fingers of the broken one over Jesse’s nape. 

A few seconds later, Jesse pulled back. His lips were parted in a weak smile, eyes sedated. Walt turned his head rather than meet his gaze. 

“You okay now?” 

“It’s passed.” 

“Think the weed helped?” 

“Hard to say.” 

Jesse squirmed an arm between their two bodies and fiddled with Walt’s fly. Walt reached out and grasped his wrist, firmly. 

“I need some time alone.” 

“Okay.” Jesse picked up the untouched glass of chocolate milk as he stood. He closed the door behind him as he left. 

* * *

About half an hour later, Walt came in through the front door. Jesse was sitting in the kitchen. He had put pants on and was scribbling something intently on a piece of paper. As Walt came in, he glanced up for a split second before turning back towards whatever he was writing. 

“Hey. Didn’t even see you leave.” 

“I got that beer you wanted. Mind helping me carry it?”

Jesse put down his pencil, unhooked the IV, and went outside with Walt to retrieve the flat of Coors from his trunk. 

“Finally, you got booze! Like, thanks, don’t get me wrong, but any special occasion?” 

Walt smiled. “Nothing in particular.” 

Jesse carried the beer into the kitchen. Walt retrieved a bottle opener and cracked two bottles. Jesse lifted his and the two men clinked them against each other in a toast. Walt sipped his tentatively; Jesse slammed his like a man dying of thirst. He sighed in satisfaction, then moved to re-attach the IV. Walt stopped him with a hand on his arm. 

“Hey. That’s not a great idea.” 

“Why not?” 

“Alcohol potentiates opiates. I wouldn’t want you passing out drunk on me and not waking up.” 

“Sure, sure. I’m not gonna die on you. Another?” 

Walt cracked another beer and handed it to Jesse. “How was your day?” 

“Fine, I guess. Boring as shit. Like always.” 

“You seemed pretty busy when I got in.” 

“Just killing time drawing. I can’t believe you don’t have cable.” 

“I don’t have much at this place. Sorry. Drawing?” 

“I dunno. Just scribbling some shit. Like I said, I was bored. Hey, maybe let's go to my place? I’ll get that Xbox. ” 

“Sure. Let’s go.” Walt’s bottle had barely gone down – still good to drive. He stuck the remainder in the fridge, drove Jesse back to his old apartment, and watched him dismantle the game console and pack up his games into a bag, stumbling and dropping cords as he did so. The drugs already in his system seemed to have intensified the drink’s effect. He clutched the video game system in his arms on the drive back and sunk into his seat, relaxed and euphoric. 

Back at his own apartment, Walt continued to nurse his drink as Jesse busied himself hooking up the Xbox to the apartment’s 20” television. After some troubleshooting and profanities, Jesse pumped his fist and let out a triumphant whoop. 

“Got ya! Down for Halo?” 

Walt smiled. “Sure. I’m down for Halo. Let me get us another round.” 

He grabbed another two beers and cracked one for Jesse, leaving his sealed. Jesse tossed Walt a controller and started a game. Within a few minutes, Walt’s character was dead. Jesse laughed.

“Shit! You suck at this.” 

“Well, there’s a learning curve.” 

After Walt respawned and died again, Jesse took a swig of beer and said, eyes still on the TV: “I’m not stupid, y’know. You act like I don’t know what you’re up to, and it’s obvious.” 

“Come again?” 

“You were all telling me not to drink and shit, and now you’re buying me beer and acting, I dunno, all nice all sudden. Like you care how I feel. Cause you want to fuck me.” 

On the screen, Walt’s character took a few enemies out before expiring. “So I’m getting you beer. You’re drinking it.” 

Jesse fiddled with the controller with concentration and mowed down another wave of foes. “You’re not gonna deny it, huh?” 

“I don’t feel the need to.” 

Jesse missed a few shots and went down as well. He tossed the controller at the TV stand in mock frustration, and it rebounded and clattered against the floor. “That’s cool. Being honest.” He picked up the beer and took a swig. “Cut to the chase?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I said, cut to the chase. You don’t need to act like my friend or pretend to give a shit. If you wanna fuck, just do it. Not like I can say no.” 

Walt put his controller down on the coffee table, picked up the remote, and switched off the television. He sighed. “What makes you think you can’t say no?” 

“I dunno. The part where you got me hooked on drugs? Let Tuco and Gus take over my hustle? The part where I’m living in your house?” 

“Jesse. Before we met, you were unemployed, about to be homeless, and addicted to meth. Every good thing in your life now came from our business together. So if you want to act like I’m some horrible predator because I helped you out and you feel indebted? Go ahead. I won’t feel guilty about it.” 

“That’s not – uh, I’m not guilt tripping you here or anything.” 

“Then what are you trying to say?” 

“I thought you liked being the one in charge.” Jesse slumped against the backrest of couch. 

“You thought I’d like to have sex with someone who can’t say no?” 

“Argh. Shut up, okay? You make it sound like I’m insulting you, and I’m not. I wanted to, I dunno, just make you happy? You like being in charge. You’re acting like I’m some idiot asshole. Maybe I am. Fuck.” He covered his mouth with his hand. “I – I don’t feel great.” 

“Another beer?” 

“Yeah. If you want me to.” 

Walt passed Jesse another bottle and Jesse chugged it. He slammed the bottle against the coffee table. “Good enough?” 

“Pardon?” 

Jesse’s eyelids were half-closed and fluttering. He looked towards Walt but not at him. “You – you said – you were gonna get me drunk. And have sex. So is this enough? I’m drunk. Are you gonna?”

“You just told me it would be unethical.” 

“I didn’t tell you  _ shit _ !” Jesse collapsed on the couch on his back and curled up fetally. His head bumped hard against Walt’s thigh. “I just said stuff. Nothing ‘bout  _ ethics.. _ .” 

“You questioned whether or not our …  _ arrangement _ ... is strictly consensual.”

“Fuck off.” 

“If you want sex? Ask for it.” 

“I hate you. Uh. I want sex.” 

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.” 

Walt couldn’t see Jesse’s face, but his voice was strangled. “Fuck me.” 

“Try again.” 

“ _ I’m an addict. I’m a whore. I fucked it all up. You were really nice to me, and I’m gonna, I’m gonna fuck it up. ‘Cuz I’m useless. It’s what I do. _ ” He choked on each word. “Is that good enough?” 

“Not really, no.” 

“Then what the fuck do you want?” 

“For you to ask like you mean it.” 

“ _ What the fuck do you want me to say? _ ” The words came ragged, tinged with panting. Jesse was crying. “You want me to beg? Want me to tell you more about how fucking shitty I am? How I’m trash compared to you? I like you, ‘kay? I like you. You’re a fucking asshole. But you’re nice sometimes.” 

Walt ran his fingers through Jesse’s hair. He scratched his scalp as though he was petting a cat. 

“I – I really don’t feel good –“ Jesse had dug his face into the couch. The upholstery muffled his voice to near incomprehensibility. 

“You’re doing good. You’re doing okay.” 

“Fuck,  _ fuck _ , I’m really sorry –” There was a moan and then a wet retching noise. 

“You don’t need to be sorry. You don’t need to worry about it, okay? Just relax.” 

“Stop with the caring act, okay? It’s fake. You can’t just be a massive dick and then act like a dad and make everything okay. I don’t like it. I can tell – I mean, what the fuck? The fuck are you doing? Are you getting off on this? ‘Cause I puked on your couch?” 

Walt was silent. He looked away from Jesse. He stroked Jesse’s hair for a few more seconds, and then he clenched Jesse’s hair in his fist and pushed hard, down, back and forth, grinding Jesse’s face into the couch. The room resonated with startled, pained, half-stifled trapped animal whimpering. Jesse’s limbs twitched and jerked, but moved no further than inches. He didn’t fight back. 

After some seconds – minutes, maybe – time seemed to stop – Walt let go. Jesse was still. Walt turned Jesse’s head, gently but firmly, to face him. Jesse’s face was crusted with wet, frothy emitus. His eyes were lidded and barely open but still conscious. 

“Did you like that, Jesse?” 

“No.” The voice came so weak it was barely audible. 

“Will you let me do it again?” 

“Yeah. Okay.” 

“Good boy.” 

Walt scratched Jesse’s head more, but didn’t force him down again. Instead, he hefted the younger man’s body with his hands, repositioning it like so much limp meat. Jesse’s body was completely lax. He dragged Jesse so his legs were dangling off the couch, then went to the bathroom for lube, jerking off for a few pulls, taking himself to full arousal. By the time he was back, Jesse had somehow slid over the side of the couch and was curled on the linoleum. A trail of puke crusted on the side of the couch. 

“Hey. Jesse. You still want sex?”

Walt couldn’t tell if the noises that came in response were objections or arousal, or even if they were related to the words he’d spoken. Jesse’s eyeballs were rolled back in his head so far that just a tiny sliver of pupil peeked out from beneath the lashes. He made another wet noise. Thin streams of yellow-white foam bubbled out of both corners of his lips 

“Are you there? Jesse?” No response. “Nod if you’re there.” 

Jesse shook his head a few inches, almost imperceptibly. 

“You want this?” 

The slurred, unintelligible sounds that Jesse let out in response could have conceivably been,  _ I want it. _

Walt hoisted Jesse back into the draped-over-the-couch-position, face up this time. He turned Jesse’s body barely on the side and fucked him. Getting his cock in was a struggle. Jesse was almost impossibly tight like this, even when his muscles were relaxed, absent any of his normal reflexive motions of accommodation. He gasped as Walt’s cock finally found its target. A few more thrusts drove it in to the root. 

Walt fucked Jesse’s limp, whimpering, semi-conscious body. It barely took minutes for him to finish inside. When he was done, he propped Jesse up on the couch, not worrying about how the sweat, vomit, and cum crusted and oozing on him would impact the upholstery – that ship had sailed – and cozied up beside him to keep him safe through the night. 

* * *

On Thursday, after a productive morning of cooking meth, Walt swung by the house on his lunch break and took Jesse out to Denny’s. The waitress swung by the booth brimming with pep.

“Afternoon, Walt! What’ll it be today?” 

“Same as always for me.” 

“And your son?” 

Walt turned to Jesse, who shot him a microsecond glance of confusion and disgust. There was a brief silence before Jesse answered: 

“Uh, pancakes. The one with all the fruit. Side of sausage. And a coffee.” 

“Great choice. Be up in a jiffy!” She hustled off to another table, and Jesse turned to Walt. 

“The fuck was that?” 

“Oh. Cynthia is just like that. Can’t say I don’t envy her energy.” 

“No, not the waitress, dipshit, you.  _ Dad _ .” He practically spat the word. “For real?” 

“This is about the ‘son’ thing? It’s an easy enough assumption for her to make.” 

“Yeah? I don’t think she’s doing that much assuming about you. You know each other’s names. She knows what you eat. Want to try again?” 

Walt sighed. “We’ve eaten here enough. She asked me who you were a few weeks ago. There’s a limited pool of potential explanations.” 

“I don’t like it.” 

“I don’t recall asking for your opinion.” 

“Yeah, well, my opinion kind of matters for this one! You made up a cover story without looping me in? Why do we do we even need a cover for Denny’s?”

“Jesse. Calm down.” 

“I am calm. I’m just pissed off!” The words came out louder than Jesse had apparently anticipated. He shot a paranoid glance around the diner, then leaned in towards Walt and dropped his voice. “No way in hell we’ve eaten here enough that she’d recognize you based on that. Can’t see you going to a diner solo on the reg. You come here with your wife and kids and shit too, right?” 

“Yes, occasionally.” 

“So how’s it going to play next time you’re here with them and this Cynthia chick says to your kid, ‘oh, how’s your brother been keeping?’”

Walt sat for a second, chewed his lips with noises of deliberation, and then looked away into the distance. 

“Damn straight!” Jesse said. “Maybe, I dunno, consult me before you start running around telling lies about me? Because this is a shit lie. It’s risky. It’s pointless, and it’s pretty fucking weird.” 

“Weird?” 

“You  _ have _ a son. Is this some incest fantasy shit? You’re going to run around town telling everyone I’m your kid and then think about that while we’re fucking? Because I am not into that, I am not down for that, and you need to back that one the fuck off.” 

Walt’s arms tensed. “Jesse. You will  _ not say anything like that about my family life again. _ Understand?” Jesse opened his mouth in response. He noticed Walt’s expression and posture and his eyes widened in genuine fear for a second, stifling whatever he was about to say. He looked downwards. His forearms were on the table. Walt reached out and put his hand over Jesse’s. “You know I love my family. And not in the way you’re insinuating.” 

“Yeah. And I’m not a part of your family. Haven’t met them except your wife, when she told me to fuck off. You want to have it both ways. Be the family man at Denny’s and then come home, get me fucked up, and get off to weird sex.” 

The waitress, just then arriving with the coffee, set it down wordlessly and without a smile. She left in a hurry. Walt buried his face in his hands.

Jesse laughed. “Hey, don’t worry.  Now no way will she let your wife in on your lies by accident. She’ll keep her mouth shut. She’s a waitress at a Denny’s, she must have heard some  _ shit _ .” 

“Okay. So what should I have told her?” 

“I dunno, the truth, maybe? I’m a former student? A friend? A partner?” 

“Partner?” Walt smiled incredulously. 

“Hey, it’s the line you always give me.  _ We’re partners. _ Sounds that corny when you say it, too.”

The food came quickly after: a mountain of pancakes smothered in pineapples and whipped cream for Jesse, a sandwich and soup for Walt. The two tabled the discussion and dug in with aplomb. Walt asked Jesse about his week and was met with a list of desperate attempts to kill time: video games, Netflix mail order documentaries, marijuana-infused hijinks with Badger and Skinny Pete. They finished. Walt paid the bill. They got in the car. 

As Walt started the ignition, Jesse said: “You always say we’re partners, right? Partners means equals. Equals means, you want to make a decision, you clue me in. And no more calling me your son.” 

“No. No more calling you my son.” 

“I miss cooking. It’s fucking boring at home. We had fun working together, right? We’re going to cook together again?”

“Of course. When you’re better.” 

“Am I getting better?” 

“Yeah, you’re getting better.” 

They got home. Walt walked Jesse in and followed him into the kitchen. Jesse was in good spirits. 

“Shit, I can’t believe that, in the diner.  _ Partners. _ All that gay sappy shit.” 

“It doesn’t exactly suit you.” 

“Yeah. That whole partners thing? Made sense when we were selling meth together. Now it’s just lame.” 

“So ‘son’ is out and ‘partner’ is out. ‘Friends’ doesn’t quite fit, either. What should I call you, then?” 

“Why does it matter? Tell the waitress it’s none of her fucking business.” 

“It’s more for my personal reference. How I file you away in my mind.” Jesse was grabbing a soda from the fridge. Walt brushed a hand against his nape and he turned. Their eyes met. “What did you say a few weeks ago? That you’re my bitch?” 

Jesse smirked. “Okay. Maybe I liked ‘partner’ better.” 

“You can be both.” 

Afternoon sunlight streamed into the kitchen through the windows. Jesse, unprompted, slid downwards against the fridge to kneel on the floor. Both men fumbled with their own belts. With his face pressed against Walt’s crotch, Jesse murmured: 

“That sounds nice.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, just as the first chapter outgrew its planned boundaries, so did the second. "This whole thing will definitely be finished before _El Camino_", I said... well, the movie came out while I was writing the diner scene, so that was nice timing. 
> 
> I regret a little going so hard at the beginning when the later chapters are more comforting and chatty! Is that unsatisfying? Is this "H/C" or "whump?" Unsure. Well, the perfect is the enemy of the good. Happy(?) endings for everyone(?) still incoming. 
> 
> Thank you to for everyone who gave comments or kudos. Special thanks to NETWT10Z, whose insights on this show have helped me on characterisation and on motivation to actually write. Hope to hear your thoughts, and see you for the ending!


	3. Happy Families (#1)

Walt’s apartment looked like a tornado had run through a cereal aisle. He’d stayed late with Gale to finish the batch and texted Jesse not to wait for him to bring dinner, and Jesse – in a fit of either petulance or exuberance – had responded, apparently, by calling his crew over to smoke weed and crystal, play video games, and raid Walt’s pantry for its stockpile of sugary breakfast foods. When Walt got home that night, he could hear Jesse yelling instructions indistinctly and the footsteps of at least three men beating a hasty retreat out the backdoor. 

He walked slowly, surveying the carnage. The floor was mottled with crumbs and puddles of spilt drinks. In the living room, the couch was doing double duty as a staging area for Jesse’s video game collection and as an impromptu ashtray. Jesse lay in his own bed, feigning sleep. Walt’s first impulse was to awaken him and give the kid a piece of his mind, but he restrained himself; if this was a cry for attention, best not to reward it. Instead, he headed straight to the lab and threw himself into his work. 

Jesse called him that afternoon. The cook was at a stable stage. Gale was intermittently monitoring the gages of one of the reaction vessels while flipping through a poetry magazine. Vincent was nowhere to be found; he had been much less present in the lab lately now that Walt had recovered from his fracture and, apparently, earned enough of Gus’s trust to cook meth without a babysitter. Walt answered.

“Hello?”

…

“Yes. I saw. Can this conversation wait until I get home tonight?”

…

“Look, I said I’d get you a Playstation or whatever it is you need to occupy your time. You declined. If you’re bored, that’s on you.”

…

“What, exactly, do you think I should be offering you beyond what I’ve already offered?”

…

“That’s not happening.”

…

“You’re right. I miss it too. The smells, the bullet holes in the door, being out in the desert and looking at the sky. It _ was _ nice.”

…

“The new place is nice too. Industrial equipment, purified air – I can’t lie, it’s an upgrade.”

…

“He’s _ not _ an upgrade over you. He’s just _ not _. Look, he's a professional, he knows what he’s doing, but you and I are a team, okay? Partners. Once you get better we’ll be back in the lab together before you know it. Promise.” 

…

“You haven’t failed, Jesse. How long has it been – six weeks? No meth, no needles? That’s a success in my books.” 

…………………………………

“You shouldn’t talk about yourself like that.” 

…

“Yes, I know I _ said _ it too, but I didn’t _ mean _it. Not that way, at least.”

…

“We’re not having this conversation while I’m at the lab. Talk tonight.” Walt hung up. 

As Walt walked back towards the reaction vessels, he caught a glimpse of Gale tinkering with the settings on one of the reaction tanks a few yards away from where he had taken the call. Between his focus on the conversation and the height of the reaction vessels, he hadn’t seen Gale get there. Their eyes met and Gale flashed him a hollow-looking smile. 

The work day proceeded uneventfully. As they finished and changed back into their street clothes, Gale turned to Walt with studied casualness. “Long day, huh? Want to go get beers?” 

“Sure. My evening’s free.” 

Gale’s face lit up for a split second before he stifled the enthusiasm. “Let’s go downtown.”

As Walt hopped in the car to follow Gale to their destination, he shot Jesse a text: _ Be home late. Don’t stay up for me. _ There was no answer. 

* * *

The bar Gale chose was dim, grungy, and festooned with plants and cacti and featured an extensive microbrew list and a plethora of vegan options on the snack menu. The crowd there was young enough that Walt’s first action was to scan the room for former students. They got a table away from the main crowd, ordered food, and talked work, couching the specifics of their industry in vague language of factories and production targets. A round of beers later, the topic swapped to college stories and startup war stories, laughing over Gale’s horrible internships and Walt’s glory days at Grey Matter. A round of shots, and Gale was ranting about the failures of capitalism as Walt made noncommittal noises of sympathy. More beers and Gale leaned forward on his elbows: 

“What did I do wrong?” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“A few weeks ago you said my job was secure. I heard you on the phone today. It didn’t sound that way.” 

Walt buried his face in his hands. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“That doesn’t really answer my concerns.” 

“Gale, I was just… saying things. I was calming somebody down.” 

“With all due respect, it sounds like you’re calming me down right now.” Gale looked down. “I think we make a great team, Walt, and I hope you feel the same. And then I hear you offer my job to your girlfriend, and of course I’m worried.”

Walt blinked, then blinked again. “Come again?” 

“I’m sorry. I respect your privacy, but I couldn’t help overhearing a few of your phone calls. The sound travels, you know? The person you were talking to today, Jessie. You’ve taken phone calls from her before.” 

“Ahhh.” Walt let out a little laugh, but quickly pulled himself to seriousness. “Gale, Jesse isn’t my girlfriend or a risk to your job. Just... somebody I used to cook with. How do I put this…

“Jesse is, ah… kind of like punk music. Intense. Untrained. There’s enthusiasm but no restraint, no subtlety. You’re more like jazz. You’re creative in the lab, you’re as dedicated as Jesse was – if not more – and you have the education and professionalism to turn talent into art. Punk music is great when you’re young, but the Ramones aren’t going to be playing Carnegie Hall. And our operation right now is at a Carnegie Hall level.” 

“Thank you, Walt. You have no idea how much that means to me.” Gale’s face lit up. “No offense, but it’s surprisingly poetic for you.” 

“Maybe your Walt Whitman’s rubbed off on me.” Walt smiled as well. “Don’t worry, Gale. You’re not going anywhere.”

* * *

Walt stumbled out of the taxi and up the front steps and threw open his door to darkness and a reek of stale beer. He headed straight to Jesse’s bedroom, navigating by memory in the low light, kicking aside empty cans and feeling what sounded like Corn Pops or Funions crunch underfoot. 

Walt turned on the bedroom lights. The bed was empty, its sheets rumpled.

Calmy, he walked to the living-dining area and flicked the switch.

The kitchen had been trashed. Most of the cupboards were open, and one door had been ripped off his hinges. Below, most of his plates and cups lay in shards on the floor, mingled with green chunks of beer bottles to form an impassable multicolored minefield of broken glass. His nice hardwood cutting board was set out on the kitchen island. It bore a fine dusting of blue powder. Somebody had stabbed needles into it in a cluster like pins into a voodoo doll. Next to it, syringes lay in the sink. 

Walt had come home to Jesse naked, come home to Jesse passed out in the kitchen, but never come home to Jesse gone. 

He phoned Jesse. Straight to voicemail. 

After a few seconds of fuming, he dialed Badger. Badger picked up. 

“Where’s Jesse?” 

“Uh, I don’t think he wants to talk to you, Mr. White.” Badger had to half-yell against the background noise of wherever he was, thumping dance music mixed with a wall of voices and hooting. “Sorry. I need to go.” Click. 

The next person Walt called was Saul. “I need your men to search every strip club and after-hours in Albuquerque and bring me Jesse Pinkman.” 

* * *

Just a few hours outside the city in the wilds of New Mexico, no streetlights muddied the starry sky and no buildings broke the gentle curves of the horizon. All was sand and scrubgrass, flats and gentle hills, and sporadic clusters of pine or mesquite.

Out in this vastness, a solitary car cut through the scrubland, cleaving the darkness with its high beams: a grimy, jet-black 1978 El Camino. Racing at first with a speed that made it bounce on its suspension, it slowed to a crawl as it approached a juniper-covered hill, and turned and crept alongside it until the headlights illuminated what its driver sought: a decrepit white-and-brown motorhome parked, headlights off, in the shadow of the bluff. 

About twenty yards from the motorhome, the car stopped. Its lights went out. The front doors swung open and two men emerged and stood, waiting, beside the car, the passenger hefting a rifle, the driver unarmed. Seconds later, a man stepped out of the RV. For seconds, the three stood motionless, silhouetted against the stars. Then, at the man from the RV’s nod, the El Camino’s driver walked to his trunk, popped it open and, with some struggle, dragged its bound, struggling human contents over the side of the car. 

_ Click _, and the captive was in spotlight: Jesse. Trussed up with yellow polyester rope, bruised and scraped and black-eyed, a thick streak of crusted blood trailing from his nose to his duct taped mouth. He froze mid-thrash like a startled deer and stared into the light with glassy, unseeing eyes, until seconds later – as, seemingly, his vision adjusted and he could see the light’s source – his eyelids fluttered half-closed and his muscles relaxed. 

Walter White clicked the survival flashlight he was holding back off, then growled: “String him up.” 

The driver roughly hoisted Jesse out of the trunk by the underarms. His body hit the sand with a dull thud, and he remained near-motionless as the driver dragged him through the scrub towards the bluff. His companion followed nearby, rifle trained against Jesse’s leg, and stood at attention as the driver hoisted the body against one of the sturdier pines and tied its bound wrists to a loop around a branch, pulling the rope taut until the captive was forced onto tiptoes. Jesse squirmed and kicked the air, trying unsuccessfully to find a solid foothold before surrendering to slump and let his weight dangle from the branch. 

The El Camino’s driver spoke in a cheery Southern drawl, free of malice. “He had a lot more fight in him before.” Walt did not respond. The driver raised his own flashlight to spotlight Jesse’s head, now hanging low, hiding his face. “This is the right guy, right? He’s gotta be. Saw your face and stopped fighting. Like you got him scared.” A pause. “We can rough him up some more. If you’d like.” 

The desert was silent in the dark. The driver turned his light to Walt. Walt wore sunglasses. His face was blank. The driver flicked the light out. Two seconds’ rapid noise: slaps, claps, cracks, thuds – gasping, keening, retching – 

“That’s enough.” 

“Job well done?” 

“Yes. You’ll get your pay.” 

“Glad you liked it.” There was a smile in the driver’s voice. “You need more rough work, you know who to call.” 

The driver and gunner returned to the El Camino and Walt approached the tree. As the engine revved and the car sped away, Walt turned on his camping flashlight as a lantern, illuminating both his face and Jesse’s bowed head. Jesse spat something to the ground. He hefted his neck upwards to meet Walt’s gaze. He was smiling. His lips were dark red. Gleaming blood seeped down his chin. His eyes were not smiling. They were glazed and fixed on the distance.

A pause, and Walt spoke: “Where were you?” 

“Went out.” 

“Where?” 

“You know. Why don’t you tell me?” 

Sand and scrubgrass silenced Walt’s steps as he approached Jesse at the tree. He slapped him. Back-handed. The noise of flesh on flesh rang out through the desert night. Jesse didn’t dodge. Wet blood smeared on Walt’s hand. 

Jesse spoke, slurring and weary, but calm. “What game are we playing here?” 

“Excuse me?” 

Shuddering with effort, Jesse lifted his head an inch. He brought his gaze to Walt’s as best he could, peering through his lashes with glazed eyes. “Game. Scene_ . _ You know. What you want – what you’re trying to do here. You think you’re the hero? You gonna give me tough love, save me from myself? Or you’re the baddie, some Pablo Es-ta-bar shit, hard man, hard choices, gotta rough me up to _ protect, _ uh, the _ security _ of your _ important _operation?

“Or –” and suddenly his voice was low and breathy – “is this a_ porno _ for you? You like ‘em tied up? Want to slap them around?” 

“I’m asking the questions here.” 

“Let’s say I don’t tell you shit. You gonna beat it out of me? Your goons softened me up. I’m all nice and tender.” 

Walt took off the sunglasses. His voice softened, returning to its normal register. “I don’t know why you’re doing this.” 

“Doing what?” 

“This – guilt trip, or masochist act, or whatever it is. Trying to provoke me. Everything was going so well.” 

Jesse spit in his eye. Walt hefted the flashlight and hit him again. His skull cracked against the tree and he went limp. 

“You _ do _like slapping them around.” No faux coyness now. Just the accusation. 

“Jesse. Why did you trash my house?” 

“Fuck you, that’s why.” Another slap. “That all you got, pussy?” A flurry of impacts. Jesse thrashed and swore incoherently. When Walt stepped away, he reared against the bindings. “Hit me again.” 

“Answer my question.” 

“I said, hit me again. I’ve had worse. Tuco? He was the real deal. You? What are you gonna do, shoot me and bury me in the desert? _ Every single time you hit me _ it’s just proof that you can’t _ really _hurt me and this is all you have the balls to try.” 

Walt tensed like an animal ready to strike – to jump at Jesse and either choke him, or unleash a much harder volley of blows – but instead he relaxed and stood a few seconds in silence as Jesse hung from his bindings, panting in rage. Then, Walt put his hand to his forehead.

“You know, Jesse? You’re right.” His voice softened, Heisenberg giving way to the father and teacher: gentle and soothingly authoritative. “I’m not cut out for this… this beating thing, this intimidation thing. I could never really hurt you.” Jesse smirked and seemed about to say something, but Walt cut him off – 

“But the man who brought you here. Does he seem like the kind of person who could _ really _hurt you?” 

“What’s he gonna do? Kill me? You wouldn’t let him. Beat me? Nothing a little heroin can’t fix.” 

“I gave him your photo to help him find you. He said your lips looked pretty.” 

“You – no. You wouldn’t.” 

“How confident are you in that? Look me in the eyes, Jesse. I know you think I’m too soft to do what needs to be done. Have you considered the possibility that – maybe I just don’t like getting my hands dirty?” 

Jesse didn’t look Walt in the eyes. He stayed slumped, contemplating on the ground for perhaps ten seconds of silence, before he spoke. With no anger in his voice, just resignation, he said: 

“How do you want this to end?”

“Excuse me?” 

“_ This. _ All of this. Everything. I didn’t think of it before, you know? I was just focused on not relapsing. Not taking heroin. Not following Jane. And at first this felt like – a vacation? From thinking? And you said all I had to worry about was getting better. But I don’t think I’m getting better. And if I was, does it matter? Because what happens at the _ end _? I go back to cooking and spend each day staring at drugs I want and can’t have? You keep me handcuffed to the bed like your fantasy live sex toy? Or you decide I’m too much of a liability to have wandering around and get that guy you just threatened to rape me with to shoot me in the head?” 

“Jesse.” 

“Look, I know that tone. You’re gonna tell me some vague, reassuring dad-type bullshit. Just skip it. Tell me: how does it end?” 

Silence. Then:

“Honestly, Jesse? I don’t know how this ends. How do you want this to end?” 

“_ I don’t know _ ! Aren’t _ you _ the big man with the big plans? Uh, maybe I get sick of your shit, and you shoot me, but I die in a cool way. Or we stop cooking meth, you get miracle cured of cancer, I go to college and do science. Or... one day, I just get in the car and drive.” In the washed-out glare of the flashlight, Jesse was chewing his bloodied lip. His head hung to the side, staring with unfocused eyes at a distant patch of dirt, fixated on something only he could see.

“I’ll go to Alaska.” 

“Why Alaska?” 

“It’s cold. Different. Sounds nice.” 

“It does sound nice.” Walt’s voice was calm and sad. His face was inscrutable in the dark. “Or you think I kill you. And that’s – a happy ending, in your books. That doesn’t sound like a happy ending.” 

“Hey, you didn’t ask me for happy endings. Just what I think would be cool. You shooting me? Getting your hands dirty for the first time? Feeling guilty about it for the rest of your life? Sounds pretty fucking gratifying.” 

“You think I would kill you.” 

Jesse let out a bitter chuckle. “I don’t know. But you _ want _me to think that. Your goons dragging me out to the woods? That’s not an ‘I-could-never-kill-you’ move. That’s a, ‘I own you, I do what I want, you’re junkie trash and nobody will miss you’ play.” 

Walt sighed. 

“Oh, _ fuck you _. You know I’m right.” 

“It’s not exactly how I’d phrase it.” 

“Oh, sure. When you do your teacher-father-cancer patient bit, yeah, that’s not how you’d _ phrase _it. But when we’re fucking and you choke me? That’s you.” He was grinning. His eyes were full of hate. “You’re a control freak because you’re scared of me. You’re scared because I know. Who. You. Are.” 

“Jesse. Would you believe me if I said this wasn’t how it was supposed to go? I’ve always thought you were a good kid. Okay, maybe not everything I’ve done has been… well-advised. But I saw you and you were suffering, and I just – I just wanted everything to be alright.” 

“You know? I actually believe you. You lie all the time, to me, your wife, yourself – but yeah. I still believe you. Okay, I believe that you believe that. And I always say I’m going to quit drugs, and I believe it at the time, because actually, this shit isn’t fun any more! Shooting up used to feel amazing. Now being high is just – I dunno, slightly less bullshit than not being high. And we say I’m going to stop using and you’re going to stop trying to be, like, smart dude Tuco Salamanca. But we both know, right? We’re _ not _gonna stop. That’s who we are.” 

For the first time since Walt had threatened him, Jesse raised his head, looked Walt in the eyes. The flashlight beam put in stark relief all the changes that his confinement had visited on him: the pallid skin, the sunken cheeks, the bruise blotches that peeked from the neckline and sleeves of his oversized tee. His lips were crusted with blood. He said, determined, almost triumphant:

“We’ll always be fucked up.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't lying when I said this story was still active! _Really_ \-- and there is an ending in sight. Various life events ran together to rob me of time to write, until things cleared up about now; so I figured as it's taking so much time for me to piece together part three, I might as well release it in more manageable chunks. 
> 
> Thank you again for everyone's kudos and pleasant remarks, and I'll see you for the ending!


End file.
